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ISABEL CARLETON’S FRIENDS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON - CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lm 

TORONTO 

























4 . 









* 


4 V# 



The lunch was a very gay one, eaten as the four sat about 
a grassy space, sheltered by rocks and a fallen tree, over 
which a vine was climbing. 


ISABEL CARLETON’S 
FRIENDS 


BY 

MARGARET ASHMUN 

Author of “Isabel Carleton’sVear,” “The Heart 
of Isabel Carleton,” etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

EDWARD C. CASWELL 


1 


l2eto gorfe 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1918 

All right? reserved) 



Copyright. 1918 
By MARGARET ASHMUN 




Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1918. 



OCT -2 !9!8 



1 

© Cl. A 5 0 6 0 0 4 L 


O/vO *V 


MY MOTHER 


4 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Promise of Spring i 

II A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar . . . 16 

III Affairs Domestic 38 

IV The Canton Flannel Ape 55 

V Willing Hands 77 

VI The Fair Melissy 93 

VII “Frilly Things” . .111 

VIII Friendship Imperiled . . . . . . .132 

IX An Eventless Day 158 

X The Downfall of China 177 

XI The Committee for Student Honesty . 198 

XII A Bohemian Folk-Song 218 

XIII Apprehensions 241 

XIV The Step-Mother 260 

XV A Wand of Kindness 283 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


The lunch was a very gay one, eaten as the 
four sat about a grassy space, sheltered by 
rocks and a fallen tree, over which a vine 
was climbing Frontispiece 

PAGE 

“You now behold a wage-earner in the great commer- 
cial world,” she said solemnly 47 

“ I don’t see why it’s necessary to let one’s life get so 
cluttered up ” 149 

“ My poor child,” she said tenderly, “ don’t you see 
that we have to love each other? ” 285 

















ISABEL CARLETON’S 
FRIENDS 


CHAPTER I 

THE PROMISE OF SPRING 

O NE April afternoon, Isabel Carleton and Meta 
Houston emerged, talking and laughing, from 
Main Hall, which crowned the hill at the great 
State University at Jefferson. Their college classes 
were over for the day, and they were ready to take 
a leisurely course homeward. The day was clear 
and brilliant. The sun was warm without being 
oppressive, and the fresh spring wind blew across 
the lake in long caressing gusts that fluttered the 
garments of the students who were straggling down 
the Hill. 

The two girls paused at the top of the slope, and 
looked down the campus, where the grass had 
thrown a thin wave of green over the brown herbage 
of the year before. The lines of elms which bor- 
dered the walks were faintly touched with the color 
of new leaves, and the maples showed a burst of 
carmine buds. The rows of trees continued, past 
the Library and the Administration Building, and 
down State Street to the marble Capitol, a mile 
away. 


1 


2 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ How bright it seems, after the dull class-rooms,” 
said Isabel. “ I always wonder why people want to 
bother with things in books, when the world is so 
fascinating out-of-doors.” 

“ That’s what I think,” answered Meta. “ When 
a spring day like this comes on, I wonder why I’m 
not riding a broncho in Montana, instead of walk- 
ing primly around with my two feet on a sidewalk.” 

“ It must be wonderful to ride over the plains 
like that,” replied Isabel half-enviously ; — “just to 
go sweeping along with the wind in your hair, and 
the blue horizon in your eyes, — I could become al- 
most poetic even thinking about it.” 

“ It is wonderful and poetic,” said Meta with a 
sigh. “ Maybe you’ll have a chance to see what it 
is like, yourself. And yet,” she went on more 
briskly, “ it’s splendid here, Isabel. I love Jeffer- 
son, and I love the University, and I love you ! ” 

Isabel turned and smiled at her companion. 
Meta’s dark hair and her handsome defiant face 
were in striking contrast to the blond coloring and 
quiet gray eyes of Isabel. Meta was wearing a 
very fresh and stylish suit, and a black hat with a 
stiff red quill, which gave her a dashing look; the 
younger girl was dressed more simply in blue serge, 
and a hat with a wreath of foliage and berries. 

“ We’re glad we found each other, aren’t we, 
Meta?” said Isabel. “It’s queer how offish we 
were at first, and how suspiciously we regarded each 
other ! ” The decided differences in the types of 
the two girls had caused some of their acquaintances 
to marvel at their friendship. 

“ I don’t know that it is so queer, considering,” 


The Promise of Spring 3 

Meta replied. “ I wasn’t very nice to you. I don’t 
know what possessed me.” 

“ Nor I to you,” echoed Isabel. “ But I do 
know what possessed me. However — why speak 
of what’s over? Have you decided what you are 
going to wear in the third act? ” 

“ Oh, that’s what I wanted to ask you about,” 
said Meta quickly. “ I thought of a lovely gown — 
corn-colored satin, with tulle draperies of the same 
tone, and gold lace. Don’t you think that would be 
right? Althea is supposed to have dressed herself 
up rather gorgeously, so as to make an impression 
on her guests, you know.” 

u I think that would be perfect,” Isabel answered, 
her eyes alight with the vision of the gorgeous gown. 
“ It sounds absolutely comme il fant. And you’ll 
look like a — a bird of paradise in it, Meta ! ” 

“ Well, I shan’t be in Paradise, though,” said 
Meta with a grimace. “ I can never tell when I’m 
going to have stage fright.” 

“ You always seem so self-possessed.” 

“ There are times when my behavior conceals my 
feelings. About the dress — I thought I’d better 
plan it a long time beforehand, so that I could get 
the right dressmaker, and not have any complica- 
tions at the last.” 

The girls walked on down the Hill, discussing the 
Red Domino play in which, somewhat later, Meta 
was to have a leading part. Presently they came to 
the street that led to Isabel’s home. “ Come on 
with me,” said Isabel, shifting her books, which were 
heavy tomes on historical subjects; “it’s awfully 
early yet, — look at the sun. We’ll be having tea, 


4 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


you know, and besides, I want to tell you about 
something I’ve planned.” 

“ I don’t need to be urged,’! laughed Meta. 
“ But I sometimes wonder whether your mother 
doesn’t imagine she has another daughter — I’m at 
her house so much.” 

“ She loves to have you there,” Isabel returned. 
“ If all her daughters gave her as little trouble as 
you do, she wouldn’t have much to think about.” 

“ She’s been splendid to me,” said Meta wistfully. 
“ I almost feel sometimes as if I had a mother of 
my own.” 

“ I’m glad I can share mine with you.” Isabel 
gave Meta’s arm a pat with her free hand. In her 
heart she was saying, “ How dreadful not to have 
a mother ! How can she bear the thought? ” 

They walked silently down the street until they 
came to the simple white house in which the Carle- 
tons lived. Isabel ran up the steps and threw open 
the door, with the whoo-hoo that was a family signal. 

The voice of Mrs. Carleton floated down the 
stairs, though she herself could not be seen. “ Is 
that you, Isabel? ” 

“ Yes, Honey-Mother, and I’ve brought Meta. 
We’re going to plan a Hesperian garden in the back 
yard.” 

“ I’m not sure that I know what kind that is, but 
I’ll take it for granted. I’m glad you came, Meta. 
Stay for tea, won’t you? ” 

“Yes, indeed, I shall, thank you,” called Meta. 

Isabel put her books on the hall table, and the 
two girls went through the house, and out at the 
dining room door to the side porch, thence to the 


5 


The Promise of Spring 

back yard. “ Ah, the lovely sunshine again,’’ 
breathed Isabel. “ Thank heaven our long winter 
is over ! Good day, Mr. Hogan.” 

“ Good day to ye, ma’am,” answered Mr. Hogan, 
with his pipe in his teeth; both his hands were occu- 
pied with the task of fastening the rambler roses 
against the trellis at the back of the house. Mr. 
Hogan was a small Irish man-of-all-work whom the 
Carletons employed on various occasions. 

“ Did father ask you to spade up the garden for 
me, a little later? ” asked Isabel. 

“ He did that, Miss, and I’ll be at it before I’m 
many days older. I hear ye’re keen for raisin’ 
things this year.” 

“ I am keen for it,” admitted Isabel cheerfully. 
“ I’m going to do wonders here in the garden.” 

Mr. Hogan grunted. u The ladies is always 
keen for a garden before weedin’ time comes,” he 
mumbled. “ They’re all right for what you may 
call initial enthusiasm, but they fall down when it’s 
a question of sustaining the situation.” His eyes 
twinkled as he looked over his shoulder at the girls. 

“ You’ll see that I’m different,” protested Isabel, 
somewhat chagrined at the little man’s frank skep- 
ticism. 

“ Yes, they all think they are.” Isabel was a 
great favorite with Mr. Hogan, but he had known 
her since her childhood, and felt privileged to tease 
her. “ But by the time ye’ve got your pretty white 
fingers all dir-rty, and your back’s achin’ like a sore 
tooth, you’ll be glad to call on Hogan, so ye will.” 

“You’ll see!” repeated Isabel, with a laugh. 
She turned to Meta, who had been listening to the 


6 


Isabel Carletori s Friends 


conversation with a smile of appreciation. “ You 
believe in me, anyway, don’t you, Lady Clara Vere 
de Vere?” 

“ Of course I do, on general principles,” said 
Meta. “ I’ll have to hear more about this particu- 
lar plan. Oh, there’s a blue-bird ! What a jewel of 
a color 1 ” 

“ Lovely thing! ” Isabel stood watching the bit 
of exquisite blue fluttering in the shrubbery. Her 
face was rapt. “ I wonder if he dreams how beau- 
tiful he is? There! he has flitted away, and left us 
all-forlorn. Now listen, Meta: I’m going to have 
a garden of my own this spring. I’ve been medi- 
tating about it in the still watches of the night, as 
the poets say. I think I ought to get out and have 
that much contact with the earth.” 

“ As busy as you are? ” said Meta doubtfully. 

“Well, of course I’m scandalously busy; but I 
feel that this is important. I can eliminate a few 
silly teas, or some strolls around the Square, or chats 
about nothing in the corridors of Main Hall.” 

“ Those things may not be so easily eliminated as 
you suppose,” Meta replied. “You can’t stop a 
person in the middle of his remarks, and say, ‘ Ex- 
cuse me, but I haven’t time to listen to you; I have 
to go home and weed the onions ’ ! ” 

“ I could,” said Isabel stoutly. “ And anyway, 
I’m not going to have onions. It’s a lot easier to 
say, ‘ Kindly pardon my seeming lack of appreciation 
of your stimulating discourse; but I find that I must 
now seek my domestic shelter, and minister to the 
needs of my forget-me-nots.’ ” 

“ That sounds better. But even so, I doubt 


7 


The Promise of Spring 

whether anybody, especially a man, would ever make 
another attempt to engage you in social conversa- 
tion, after a snub like that.” 

“ Humph ! If they were so easily scared as that, 
I don’t think I’d care much about ’em anyway. Be- 
sides, I believe the right sort of man would say 
eagerly, ‘ Oh, do permit me to assist you in this 
noble work! ’ ” 

“ Rodney and George would, I’m sure,” said Meta 
rather absently. She had stooped to peep between 
the leaves of some tulips which were sprouting along 
the walk. “ It won’t be long till they’re in bloom,” 
she exclaimed. “ And oh, do look ! The irises 
have a touch of purple in the buds. They’ll blos- 
som in a few days.” 

The girls walked on around the garden. “ I 
wish the clothes-reel didn’t take up so much room,” 
grumbled Isabel. “ But I suppose it’s a necessary 
evil. I like the brick wall at the end of the lot, any- 
way, and those half-grown Lombardy poplars. We 
can feel rather shut-in and by ourselves.” 

“ It’s beyond criticism,” said Meta with a sigh. 
“ Are those hollyhock stalks over there? ” 

“ Yes. You didn’t see them when they were blaz- 
ing in rows last year, did you? We didn’t know 
each other then.” Isabel put her hand on Meta’s 
shoulder. “ Now, look at this arbor. It’s a sad 
sight. It looked awfully scraggy last fall. I’m 
going to have quick-growing vines over it — morn- 
ing-glories and red beans — and we can have tea out 
here, and read and chat. In Europe, you know, they 
live out in the garden so much of the time. I don’t 
think we do it half enough.” 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


“ There are times when you’d have to live out 
here with a coal-stove or a swimming-suit,” smiled 
Meta, who liked to poke fun at Isabel’s enthusi- 
asms. 

While the girls stood talking, they heard a whistle 
from the porch. They turned quickly, and saw Rod- 
ney Fox and George Burnham, who had just come 
out of the house. The young men lifted their hats 
and came down the path. 

“ Good afternoon,” said Rodney. “ Rambling 
among the roses?” He looked humorously about 
at the bare stalks and withered leaves of the garden. 

“ Rambling where the roses are going to be,” re- 
turned Isabel. 

“ There are two here, now, at least,” said Burn- 
ham, with a bow first to Isabel and then to Meta. 
The girls laughed and flushed. 

“ Why didn’t I think of that? George, you’re a 
genius,” said Rodney. 

“ It’s easy to be, with such inspiration,” retorted 
George. “ How could any man be less? ” 

“ I find it extremely easy to be a good deal less,” 
complained Rodney. But he looked very happy, in 
spite of his tone. His brown eyes were bright and 
eager; and his cheeks showed a healthy red. He 
wore a Norfolk jacket and the corduroy trousers af- 
fected by the engineering students at the University. 
Burnham, a goodlooking young man with dark blue 
eyes and a great quantity of reddish brown hair, was 
dressed conventionally in a business suit. 

“ I can only stay a minute,” he went on apolo- 
getically. “ I had to go up to the University Li- 
brary to look up something for my chief, and Rod 


9 


The Promise of Spring 

caught me on the way back.” Burnham was an as- 
sistant in the office of the Board of Public Works, 
at the Capitol. “ You see,” he explained, “ I don’t 
belong to the idle group of college students who have 
nothing to do but loaf around.” 

“ Loaf ! ” protested Rodney in an injured voice. 
“Well, I like that. I loaf — about as much as a 
mule in a tread-mill. If I refresh myself now and 
then with the society of the ladies, that’s no proof 
that I’m not a slave to my profession.” 

u It proves that you have good judgment as well 
as leisure,” returned Burnham. “ I used to think 
that I worked hard in college, but now I see that I 
was a gilded butterfly of gayety.” 

“ Well, don’t argue,” interrupted Isabel. “ Look 
at my arbor. It’s rather unpromising at present, 
but I’m going to furbish it up and have all sorts of 
al fresco goings-on out here.” 

“ Isabel yearns for a garden all her own,” put in 
Meta. “ There was a time when Isabella was con- 
tented with a Pot of Basil. Now she wants a whole 
garden-plot.” 

u I can’t imagine whose head she’ll get to put into 
it,” spoke up Rodney, proud of knowing his Keats. 
“ I refuse to give up mine. I need it in my busi- 
ness.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said George easily. “ Per- 
haps you’d never miss it.” 

Rodney glared. “ Anyway,” he conceded, “ if I 
lose my head, I’ll know where to look for it.” 

“ You’ll be like the man in Pickwick,” cried Isabel 
merrily. “ You remember, he was eating his lunch 
on the top of a bus, when they went under a low 


io Isabel Carletoris Friends 

bridge; and all at once, so the book says, he found 
himself with 4 sandwich in hand, and no mouth to 
put it in.* If you’ll wait, though, you’ll get one 
while you have a mouth to put it into. We’re going 
to have tea out here.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll wait.” Rodney planted him- 
self firmly on a bench. 

“ I’m sorry, but I can’t,” said Burnham. “ I have 
to get back before the office closes. I’m a man of 
affairs, as I before assured you.” 

“ Too bad,” said Rodney, “ just when the ‘ eats ’ 
are coming on. You don’t show real common sense, 
Burn.” 

“ Trust you, though,” commented Burnham. 

“ You’ll come to the vumm?Lge-sz\t-de-luxe for the 
Belgian Relief to-morrow, won’t you? ” asked Meta. 
“ I’m going to be a ‘ sales person ’ there, you know 
— and so is Isabel.” 

“ Saturday? Oh, yes. We working men are 
free on Saturday afternoon. I’ll be there, very 
willingly.” Burnham was taking a reluctant leave. 

“ I’m sorry you have to go,” said the hostess. 
She walked to the porch with him. 

He went around to the front of the house, and 
Isabel stepped to the kitchen door. “ Olga, kind 
creature,” she said, looking into the kitchen, “ will 
you make the tea in the two thermos bottles, and let 
us know when it’s ready? ” 

Olga was putting the roast into the oven. “ Yes, 
Miss Isabel,” she said, turning her head to give Isa- 
bel an assuring smile. “ I have it ready in a minute 
or two.” 

“ Thank you, Olga.” Isabel went back to where 


II 


The Promise of Spring 

Meta and Rodney were talking, as they sat on the 
bench near the arbor. 

“We were just speaking of the University Cir- 
cus,” said Rodney, as he got up to give Isabel his 
place. “ It comes next week, you know.” 

“ Yes. I’m so glad I can see it,” said Meta. 
“ I wasn’t here for the last one, since it comes only 
once in two years.” 

“ Nor I,” said Isabel. “ But I’ve seen several. 
They’re great fun ; and the Engineers always do the 
lion’s share of the work. What are you going to do 
to help the cause along, Rod? ” 

“ I’m going to be a performing ape.” Rodney 
crinkled his eyes with amusement. 

“ What sport,” laughed Meta. “ Did you really 
say an ape, Rodney? ” 

“ They put people into the roles for which they 
seem to be best fitted, don’t they, Rod?” Isabel 
spoke gravely, but her eyes were dancing. 

“Now, Isabel, don’t be a cat! It’s no disgrace 
to appear as an ape. The Monkey Family are our 
nearest relatives.” 

“ What sort of disguise are you going to wear? ” 
asked Meta. 

“ A brown canton costume with a rope tail. I’ll 
be as good looking an ape as you’ve seen in a long 
time.” 

“ As good looking as most of those that move in 
University circles,” assented Isabel. 

“ I love these college stunts,” Meta cried, button- 
ing her coat, for the wind was getting cool. “We 
certainly have had some good times this year, haven’t 
we?” 


12 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“Yes.” Rodney’s face was thoughtful. “It 
seems selfish to be having such good times when other 
people are suffering.” 

“ But it wouldn’t do any good for more people to 
suffer,” said Isabel in a practical tone, as if she were 
defending herself. 

“ By the way,” Rodney began again, after a pause, 
“ I had a letter from Herb this morning.” He was 
speaking of Herbert Barry, one of his fraternity 
brothers, who had gone to France, in the fall, to do 
ambulance work. 

“ What did he say? ” asked Isabel eagerly. “ He 
never sends me anything but cards, you know.” 

“ Oh, he’s having a wonderful time — terrible, 
you know, but thrilling. He says he never knew that 
living could be so intense — have so much crowded 
into it. He says one’s own little personal affairs 
shrink into nothing beside this great catastrophe and 
the work there is to do.” 

“ I suppose so.” Isabel looked absently at the 
row of withered hollyhock stems against the wall. 
She was thinking of the hurt which Herbert Barry 
had carried away in his heart. She wondered if it 
were healed. It must be, in the midst of events so 
much more important than one’s own little personal 
affairs — one’s aspirations and affections. 

“ Strange,” Meta was saying — “ a fastidious man 
like Herbert, with his sensitive nature, enduring the 
horrors of ambulance service in France.” 

“ I don’t know that it is,” returned Rodney 
quickly. “ People of that kind are often the most 
self-forgetful, when a great occasion offers.” 

A silence fell on the group. It was broken only 


13 


The Promise of Spring 

by the laughter of some children playing in the 
Lenners’ yard, next door, and a distant whistle from 
the little steamer on the lake. 

“ I sometimes think we ought all to be at it,” said 
Rodney at last, in a low voice. 

The girls did not answer. 

Olga came out on the porch and waved. Rodney 
sprang to his feet, as if relieved, and went to bring 
the tea. He came back bearing a big tin tray, with 
the thermos bottles set out upon it; and cups, spoons, 
sugar, cream, and lemon. Rodney made another 
trip for the sandwiches and cake. 

“ Here, put the tray on top of this barrel,” said 
Isabel. “ It has been used to shelter the yellow 
rosebush during the winter. We must have the 
wicker table brought down from the attic,” she added 
in a businesslike tone. “ When I get my bower ar- 
ranged, we’ll be sipping ambrosia out here most of 
the time.” 

“ Is brewing ambrosia one of Olga’s strong 
points?” murmured Meta. “If not, I think I’ll 
stick to tea.” 

u You don’t seem to think I might be able to brew 
it,” answered Isabel busy with the cups. “ See if 
this doesn’t serve the purpose.” She poured out 
three cups of tea, which steamed in the cool air. 
The wind had grown fresh and cutting. A robin 
began to sing loudly in the poplars. “ Bless his little 
happy heart,” Isabel cried, as she poured a generous 
supply of cream into her own cup. 

Just then Mrs. Carleton came down the walk, in 
a white wool coat, with a blue veil over her hair. 
She had very pink cheeks and brown hair with only 


H 


Isabel Garletoris Friends 


now and then a thread of gray. She walked with 
the light step of one who finds life very full and very 
satisfying. 

“ We’re so glad you’ve come, mother,” cried Isa- 
bel joyfully. “ I had begun to think you’d gone 
out.” 

“ No. I had to telephone a lot of people on some 
Woman’s Club business. I was detained. Father’s 
still at the Faculty meeting, I suppose.” 

“Take my seat,” entreated Meta. 

“ Let me pour you some tea,” said Rodney, reach- 
ing for the thermos bottle. “ Drink yours while it’s 
hot, Isabel.” 

In the midst of pleasant chatter, Mrs. Carleton 
was made to accept repose and refreshment. 

The back door opened and slammed, and Celia 
came romping down the walk in her warm red jer- 
sey. She was carrying Bobo, her big gray cat, who 
stared solemnly from her arms, sniffing the odor of 
the sandwiches. 

“ Oh, I’m so hungry! ” called Celia shrilly. “ I 
hope you have heaps and heaps of things to eat.” 

“ Smaller heaps than we had when we began,” re- 
joined Isabel; “ but you may have a bite. Here’s a 
fat sandwich. Put down Big Bobo-Cat.” 

Celia dropped the cat, and he climbed at once to 
the top of the arbor, so that he could fix his greedy 
gaze on the robin in the poplars. It fluttered its 
wings in quick alarm, and flew away. Celia, eating 
her sandwich, called out in derision, “ Serves you 
right, bad cat ! ” while the others went on with their 
talk. 

“ It seems so good to be out of doors,” said Mrs. 


The Promise of Spring 15 

Carleton, “ and to know that we’ve seen the last of 
winter, for a while, at least.” 

“ That’s what we’ve all been exclaiming, indi- 
vidually and collectively,” cried Isabel. “ But it has 
been an interesting and happy winter to me — after 
my long year away from home ; it was a long year, 
even though I was seeing Europe and having the time 
of my life. It seems only a little while since I got 
back in September.” 

“ We’ve all been so busy, we haven’t noticed how 
the weeks have flashed away,” said Meta, fixing her 
dark eyes significantly on Mrs. Carleton. “ It has 
been the best winter I have ever had — thanks to 
some dear friends who shall be nameless.” 

“ We’re so glad to be together, in these terrible 
times of separation,” murmured Isabel, putting down 
her cup and drawing her coat collar up about her 
throat. 

“ We are that,” said Rodney. 

The group was silent again. Isabel was thinking 
of Molly Ramsay and Herbert Barry, both of whom 
had left the little circle of friends; and one, at least, 
was never coming back. 

“ The sandwiches are all gone,” chirped Celia ; 
“ and it’s getting awful cold out here. Why don’t 
we go into the house, and build a fire in the grate? ” 

“ We will in a minute, Celia-Bird,” answered 
Isabel. “ But we want to watch the sun go down.” 

Celia ran to find Bobo, who had concealed himself 
behind the arbor; and the others sat watching the 
sun dipping down into the clear pale blue of the west. 
Each one was thinking about the promise of happi- 
ness in the coming months of the spring. 


CHAPTER II 

A GREEN PLATE AND A YELLOW JAR 


HE “ rummage-sal c-de-luxe,” for the benefit of 



A the Belgian Relief, was held on Friday and 
Saturday of each week; the women of the faculty and 
of the town brought out all sorts of treasured articles 
— household goods, wearing apparel, and bits of 
bric-a-brac, to be sold for the welfare of the suffer- 
ing Belgians. 

On Saturday noon Isabel was collecting the things 
which she was to take with her that afternoon, when 
she was to act as a “ saleslady.” 

“ Mother,” she called from the pantry, “ here’s 
that majolica plate that Aunt Felicia gave you. 
You’re always afraid that it’s going to get broken, 
and you don’t really like it very well, anyway — it’s 
so fearfully green. Don’t you think it would be nice 
to get rid of it? ” 

“ Why, I suppose it might as well go,” answered 
Mrs. Carleton, coming to the pantry door. “ Some- 
body may like it better than I do. I feel guilty to 
say it, but I should be glad if I didn’t have to see it 
around any more.” 

“ I thought so,” remarked Isabel. She wiped the 
plate carefully on a glass-towel. “ And I brought 
down that carved Swiss watch-rack of father’s, from 
the shelf in the hall closet. He never uses it. I 
might take that over to the sales-room.” 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 17 

u He will never know that it’s gone,” assented 
Mrs. Carleton, as she and Isabel went back into the 
dining room. “ But are you contributing only the 
articles that belong to your relatives? ” she queried 
humorously. “ It’s easy to be generous with other 
people’s things.” 

“ Now, mother, that’s unfair,” returned Isabel in 
a hurt voice. “ Do you honestly think I’m like that? 
I’m giving that lovely little mosaic pin that I got in 
Naples. Of course I have the big jade pin that 
Madame Doret gave me, and one or two others, and 
I can get along without the mosaic, though I do love 
it. And I’m giving the filet lace doily that I made 
out of the Venetian square; and — ” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” smiled Mrs. Carleton. 
“ I thought it wasn’t like you to be so high-handed. 
I laid out one or two things on the hall table for 
you to take with you. You’ll bring back some of the 
girls for dinner, won’t you? ” 

“ Yes; I asked Meta, and Miss Meade, — she and 
I are getting to be good friends, for we like the same 
things so much, you know.” 

“ I like her, too,” replied Mrs. Carleton. “ Well, 
I’ll tell Olga, then, how many there are to be. I 
hope you’ll have a nice afternoon, dear.” 

“ I’m sure I shall, Mummy. Don’t give me a 
thought till I come back.” 

“ I can’t promise that,” said Mrs. Carleton, as she 
turned away to go to the kitchen. 

On her way upstairs for her wraps, Isabel stopped 
to look at the things which her mother had laid out 
on the hall table: a beautiful little water-color in a 
hand-carved frame; a jabot of creamy Alengon lace; 


1 8 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

an old silver box which had “ come down ” in the 
family from the days of wafer-sealed letters. 
“ Dear mother ! ” said Isabel to herself, in real dis- 
may, “ she has given the things that she loved the 
very best, I do believe.” The girl took up the lace 
in unsteady fingers. “ I know it must have been a 
terrific sacrifice to part with this; it’s such a lovely 
piece, and some old friend or other gave it to her 
when she was married! ” 

Isabel went on upstairs feeling that her own con- 
tributions were rather small. She dressed hurriedly, 
and was soon starting for the hall where the sale 
was held. The brilliant April sunshine of yesterday 
had faded, and the sky was dull and gray. There 
was an occasional spurt of rain. Isabel walked 
briskly along with her umbrella up. She had put on 
a long rain-coat over her green silk dress, made over 
from the year before. 

Arrived at the hall, she found Meta already there, 
looking very handsome in a gown of rose-colored 
broadcloth. People who did the selling were ex- 
pected to “ dress up,” so that the occasion might 
seem all the more festive and alluring. 

“ I came early, so that I could arrange the tables,” 
explained Meta. “ They looked so jumbled last 
time, when Caroline Harper and Mrs. Rausch had 
them. See — isn’t that nice? Miss Meade and I 
have gone over everything.” 

“ Oh, that’s fine ! ” cried Isabel, as she took off 
her coat. The tables were covered with some 
lengths of soft old gray cashmere, against which the 
varied articles, arranged in related groups, stood out 
with tempting clearness. 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 19 

“ Miss Meade knows exactly how things should 
go,” said Meta, “ and I can make my hands useful 
if I have to.” 

“ Some of the things are very choice, aren’t 
they?” Isabel took up a bit of ancient Croatian 
cross-stitch, and then a heavy silver table-spoon. 

“ It must be hard for people to let them go,” medi- 
tated the other girl. 

“ But somebody else enjoys them. And think of 
the virtuous feeling that you get by giving up some- 
thing, and also by purchasing something that some- 
body else has given up ! ” 

“ It’s a complication of generosities, isn’t it? ” 
said Miss Meade, coming up to talk with the younger 
girls. She was a pleasant-faced young woman who 
taught interior decoration in the Home Arts depart- 
ment of the University. Her straight belted tunic 
of hand-dyed silk was as simple as it was distinctive. 

“ Oh, is that the batik-work you were doing the 
other day? ” cried Isabel with her eyes on the tunic. 
She loved hand-work and distinctive things. “ You 
make me break the tenth commandment.” 

“ I’ll show you how to do this if you like,” an- 
swered Miss Meade generously. “ And then you 
can batik, yourself.” 

“ Not batik myself, I hope,” laughed Isabel. 
“ I’d be a pretty sight ! ” 

“ Look, Isabel,” said Meta, after a minute. 
“ Miss Meade gave this. Isn’t it stunning? ” She 
held up an orange-colored jar, a rich, stimulating 
piece of pottery with a dull glaze, most unusual and 
attractive. 

“ It was the most joyous thing I had,” commented 


20 Isabel Carletons Friends 

Miss Meade. “ I thought that somebody would 
love it.” 

“ It’s a gem,” sighed Isabel. She held it affec- 
tionately. “ It’s the color I love most in the world. 
It suggests all sorts of beautiful things — orange- 
markets, and sunset, and maple-trees, and every- 
thing.” 

“ People are coming in. We must fly,” cried 
Meta. Isabel put down the jar and scurried to her 
place behind her table. For some time she was so 
busy with the unaccustomed task of selling and mak- 
ing change that she hardly noticed who came and 
went. 

All at once, she heard a familiar childish voice; 
looking up, she saw Mrs. Mitchell, a friend of the 
Carletons, coming forward, leading Billy-Boy by the 
hand. Billy-Boy — going on five — was a great 
friend of Isabel’s. 

“ Well, Isabel,” began Mrs. Mitchell, a plump 
animated woman with curling brown hair, “ this 
young man and I have been saving our pennies, and 
we want to help the Belgian kiddies.” 

“ I’ve saved a lot,” confided Billy-Boy. He took 
out a worn purse, and displayed a silver quarter and 
a number of nickels and pennies. 

“ My! that is a lot! ” Isabel was properly im- 
pressed. “ What are you going to get with it? ” 

Billy-Boy looked up with earnest blue eyes. “ I 
s’pose I could get a whole lot of things with this. I 
want something for muvver’s burfday, and then 
something for Milly, and oh, ever so many things 
for me — ” 

“ I think you’ll have to use all this for mother, 


21 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 

and then you can get something else after you’ve 
saved some more. Wouldn’t that do? ” coaxed the 
girl. 

Billy-Boy nodded soberly. “ Do you like that, 
muvver? ” He pointed to a gleaming brass samo- 
var, of unusual elegance. 

“ I don’t believe I’d get that, dear,” protested 
Mrs. Mitchell. “ It’s only twenty-five dollars ! ” 
she said laughingly, under her breath. 

“ Now here’s something that you might like.” 
Isabel held up a cup and saucer, bright and graceful, 
but not expensive. “ Don’t you think that would 
do?” 

“ It’s pretty nice,” responded Billy-Boy specula- 
tively. “ You could drink your coffee out of that, 
couldn’t you, muvver? ” 

“ I’d love it, darling.” 

The transaction was completed. Billy-Boy in- 
sisted on counting out the money twice, and on carry- 
ing the parcel himself. “ Favver always carries 
things for you,” he said reprovingly, when Mrs. 
Mitchell offered to put the cup and saucer into her 
bag. 

Mrs. Mitchell was not quite ready to go. “ Oh, 
there’s one of those old-fashioned silver fruit- 
dishes,” she said. “ I believe I’ll have to have 
that.” While she was examining the fruit-dish, she 
looked up at Isabel with a quizzical smile. “ You 
have such a happy look on your face, nowadays,” 
she said. “ For a long time after you came back, 
you looked troubled. There was a little cloud — ” 

“ As big as a man’s hand? ” asked Isabel jestingly. 

“ Just about.” 


22 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

“ Well, the man’s hand didn’t really have much to 
do with it. I think that a good deal of my distress 
was on Molly’s account.” Isabel was not smiling 
now. She looked down in pained silence at the arti- 
cles on the table. 

“ But that hurt is better, isn’t it? ” 

“ Oh, yes, so much better. The Fund has done 
so much to console me. Molly would be overjoyed 
to know how many girls have been helped, and how 
much it has meant to them.” 

“ We have had a good time, working together, 
haven’t we?” said Mrs. Mitchell. She and Isabel 
were both on the committee for managing the Mary 
Gaylord Ramsay Fund, in memory of one of Isabel’s 
friends, who had been drowned in an accident on 
the lake. “ It has been just as Molly would have 
liked.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” replied Isabel absently. 

Mrs. Mitchell paid for the fruit-dish, and moved 
away to another table. 

Isabel was selling a pair of ugly vases to a stout 
woman in a red hat, when she chanced to look over 
at Meta. An involuntary thrill, quickly suppressed, 
had shown in Meta’s face as she looked toward the 
outer door. Following her gaze, Isabel saw that 
George Burnham had come in. 

“ Ah-hl ” cried Isabel half-aloud. She felt as if 
she had discovered a secret unawares. Mm-h, — 
that was something to think about. 

“ I’ll take them,” said the stout woman in a loud 
tone, with a reproving air toward the inattentive 
young salesperson. 

Isabel went to wrap them up. George was stand- 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 23 

ing irresolutely with his hands in the pockets of his 
rain-coat. He was looking steadily and searchingly 
at Meta, who with a high color and a proud lift of 
the head was pretending not to see him. 

“ How perfectly unreasonable ! ” said Isabel to 
herself. “ She asked him to come. Girls are cer- 
tainly odd creatures. Yes, madam, two-sixty-five out 
of five. Here is the change.” 

Isabel was thinking about the little glimpse of emo- 
tions which she had witnessed; and a thin woman 
in a blue hat had to speak twice before the salesgirl 
waked up sufficiently to exhibit a drawn-work lunch- 
cloth which was pointed out. Even as she unfolded 
the cloth, Isabel found herself watching the door for 
another familiar form. “ But I refuse to let my 
face give away my feelings,” she resolved. “ It’s 
almost new; yes, it measures fully four feet; three 
dollars and a half. Besides, I don’t care enough to 
bother. Shall I wrap it up, madam? ” 

“ I think I won’t take it,” said the thin woman 
sourly. 

“ Oh, dear! ” Isabel groaned. “ I’ve lost a cus- 
tomer by not paying attention. I must concentrate 
on business.” 

She concentrated so well, and drove such a thriv- 
ing trade, that she did not notice when Rodney Fox 
came in. She jumped when she heard a voice at her 
elbow: “ You might give a fellow a sidelong 
glance, at least.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t know you were here, Rod. Let me 
see, how much are two dollars and eighty-five cents 
added to a dollar and thirty-five ? ” Isabel puckered 
her nose anxiously. 


24 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


“ It’s four-twenty. Too bad they don’t furnish 
you a patent adder.” 

“ Gracious! that would be a snake in our Eden. 
Besides, you do very well as a rapid adder yourself. 
If you’ll hang around, you can make yourself useful 
as well as ornamental. What would you like to see, 
Mrs. Caldwell? ” 

After a few more sales, in which Rodney helped 
to make change, there was a lull at the tables, while 
rain poured down viciously outside. Rodney, who 
had in the intervals been prowling about, came back 
to where Isabel was standing. “ There’s something 
over there that I want to buy for you,” he said. 

“ Oh, what? ” asked Isabel quickly. She hoped it 
wasn’t that awful red plush glove-box. She had said 
some rash thing the other day about keeping every- 
thing in separate boxes, to save time. And then she 
remembered that she couldn’t let him buy anything. 

“ It’s that thing-a-ma-jig over on Meta’s table, 
that bright orange-colored jug or whatever it is. I 
know you love that color.” 

“ I do, Rod. It’s lovely, but — ” 

“ It makes me think of the way the woods were 
that day last fall, at Lake Kegonsah, when we made 
up. Do you remember? ” 

Oh, yes, Isabel remembered! Should she ever 
forget? She only nodded her head slowly as Rod- 
ney spoke. “ Mother doesn’t approve of presents, 
you know, Rod,” she said carelessly. She was 
aching to possess the orange-colored jar. 

“Well, this is such a good cause. The money 
would buy a lot of grub for the Belgians. And I 
haven’t given you anything but a box of candy or a 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 25 

flower or two since the Year of the Big Wind.” 
His voice was very persuasive. 

“ You certainly are a talking serpent.” Isabel 
hesitated. “ We-ell, I cannot resist. I simply love 
the jug — or ‘ whatever it is,’ as you say. Go on 
and waste your cash if you want to. Meta’s trying 
to accumulate a fabulous sum to her credit this after- 
noon. It’s awfully nice of you — ” 

But Rodney had hurried away to make his pur- 
chase. He came back with the jar wrapped in thin 
tissue paper, and gleaming in veiled splendor 
through its coverings. “We beg your acceptance 
of this elegant thimble,” said he, handing the gift 
to Isabel. Behind the joking formula from Alice’s 
Adventures in Wonderland, the girl detected a note 
of tender satisfaction and triumph. 

“ Thank you, thank you. I shall love it.” Isabel 
took the present with a grateful smile. 

“ And think of that day, every time you look at 
it? ” persisted Rodney. 

“ M-huh,” murmured the girl, with a sudden feel- 
ing of shyness. “ Look, the rain is stopping, and 
people are coming in again.” She turned to her 
table and Rodney stepped aside to speak to George, 
who had been buying recklessly at Meta’s table. 

At that moment Isabel saw her father coming in 
at the door. Then her heart did leap. “ Dear fa- 
ther! ” she thought. “ I’d rather see him than any 
other man in the world. How nice he looks, — he’s 
just had his hair and mustache trimmed.” 

Professor Carleton looked about, and then came 
forward to Isabel’s table. He eyed his daughter 
inquiringly through his horn-rimmed glasses. 


26 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“ Well, Little Girl, how are you getting along? 
Selling anything? ” 

“ Oh, I should say so. I’m doing famously. I 
shall want to go into business for myself, pretty 
soon. You know, I always did want to keep a gift 
shop.” 

“ Yes, but you could never bear to see your pet 
gifts go, I’m sure.” 

“ That’s the trouble,” admitted the salesperson. 
“ But I’ve hardened my heart here, and I keep 
thinking, every time I make a sale, ‘ There ! that’s 
an extra pound or two of bacon for the mothers, or 
that would buy two dozen cans of milk for the 
babies.’ ” 

“ A good idea, I’m sure. Now, let me see. I 
suppose I ought to buy something.” The professor 
scrutinized the objects before him as if he hardly 
knew what they were. He picked up one or two 
articles vaguely, and put them down again. 

“ Father doesn’t know any more about buying 
things than a nice absent-minded rabbit,” thought 
Isabel in her secret heart. 

But her father’s eye was caught by something at 
the further side of the table. He leaned forward. 
“ Ah ! is that one of those carved Swiss watch- 
racks? ” he asked in an interested tone. 

Isabel stared at him, but he was looking at the 
rack, and did not notice her stupefied gaze. “ Yes, 
father, that’s what it is,” she answered at last in a 
choked voice. She could scarcely believe her ears. 

“ Let me see it, please. I used to have one some- 
what like that,” said the professor genially; “but 
it seems to have disappeared in the course of events.” 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 27 

Isabel, her face very red, handed him the watch- 
rack. “ It’s a nice one,” she said demurely; “ lovely 
carving, and a light wood edelweiss set at the top, 
you see. It closes up so.” Her white girlish fin- 
gers manipulated the curious carved hinge, which 
turned the watch-rack into a box. 

“ Yes, I know. Precisely like the one I had. 
Now, you know, I think this would be very useful 
on my desk, don’t you, daughter?” Professor 
Carleton looked up over his glasses at the attentive 
young salesperson. 

“ Oh, very, father. It would be fine ! ” cried 
Isabel enthusiastically. 

“ I could keep my watch in it and note the passage 
of time.” 

“ Yes, yes, the passage of time.” The girl turned 
away for a moment, almost overcome. 

“ I’ll take it.” 

Very soberly Isabel made the change and wrapped 
the purchase for her father, who slipped it into his 
pocket, and gazed about vaguely again. “ I sup- 
pose I might get something for your mother,” he 
said. He began strolling in a leisurely way about 
the room. 

As soon as he had left the table, Isabel burst into 
suppressed giggles. “ Oh, Rod, come here ! It’s 
too funny,” she called in a choked voice. “ It’s too 
delicious. Ha-ha-ha ! ” Her shoulders were shak- 
ing in her attempt to control her laughter. 

“ What is it, Isabel? ” Rodney was all agog for 
the joke. 

“Oh, it’s too lovely! What do you think? I 
brought in an old carved Swiss watch-rack that some 


28 


Isabel Garletori s Friends 


one in the family had given father a long time ago, 
and that he never thought of using. And, oh, Rod, 
he came in and bought it for himself, and never knew 
the difference ! ” 

“ Oh, say! that’s too much! He didn’t, really? ” 
Rodney was grinning delightedly. 

“ Really.” Isabel was all giggles again. 

They had a good laugh together. Then Isabel 
gave a little shriek. “ Ah, I have a wonderful idea. 
I brought a majolica plate that mother wanted to 
get rid of. It’s on Meta’s table. I looked a few 
minutes ago, and it wasn’t sold. Wouldn’t it be 
fun to make father get it and take it home to 
mother? ” 

“ That would be rich,” agreed Rodney hilariously. 
“ Do you suppose you can do it? ” 

“ I’ll try. You go and tell Meta, and I’ll lure 
him on.” Rodney hastened over to Meta’s table, 
and Isabel approached her father with a daughterly 
smile. “ Don’t you think it would be nice if you 
bought from Meta?” she said, squeezing her fa- 
ther’s arm. “ She’s trying to make a record of sales, 
you know.” 

“Why, yes; delighted, of course.” The profes- 
sor looked pleased. 

“ Meta will help you pick out something.” 

Meta was by this time informed of the conspiracy. 
“ Can I sell you anything, Professor Carleton? ” she 
asked sweetly as the unsuspecting victim neared her 
table. 

“ Yes, I think so. If I should see something that 
Mrs. Carleton would like, I’d take it. I’m not very 
clever at buying things, I’m sorry to say,” he added. 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 29 

“ I’ll help you. There are ever so many things 
here that might please her. She’s fond of china, 
isn’t she ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe so. I believe I have heard her 
say she is.” 

“Well, let’s see. There’s that luster pitcher — 
and that Chelsea cream-jug, and that old blue-and- 
white sugar bowl. Those are all nice. Oh! ” (as 
if with a sudden inspiration) “ how about this ma- 
jolica plate? Don’t you think she’d like that?” 
She held up the plate and gazed at it admiringly. 

“ It’s very striking.” The professor stared at it 
dubiously through his horn-rimmed glasses. “ Aw- 
fully green, isn’t it? Do you think she’d like any- 
thing so green? ” 

“ Why, I should think she would. It’s a fine 
plate. And now, of course, since the war, there is 
very little importing of fine china.” Meta looked 
very knowing, and very much the young woman of 
the world in her modish rose-colored dress. 

Professor Carleton hesitated, regarding the bril- 
liant gloss of the plate with some suspicion. “ M-m, 
well, I think I’ll take it,” he said at last; “ that is, if 
you feel sure Mrs. Carleton will like it.” 

Meta assumed a delicately injured air. “ How 
could she help liking a fine piece of china such as 
this is? ” she queried earnestly. “ But of course, if 
you don’t think that I — ” 

“ Oh, no offense, no offense,” exclaimed the pro- 
fessor hastily. “ I defer to your judgment entirely.” 

“ That’s very kind of you.” Meta’s mien was 
almost lofty. “ I am sure Mrs. Carleton will be sur- 
prised,” — she paused while she wrapped the plate; 


30 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


“ and pleased,” she supplemented, with a twitch of 
the lips, — “ at least I hope so. It isn’t very expen- 
sive, either,” she went on. “ There ! now that’s off 
your mind.” 

“ Thank you for your assistance,” beamed the pro- 
fessor as he departed with the plate held carefully 
against his coat, very much after the manner of 
Billy-Boy. 

Isabel, who had been lurking in the background, 
ran up and whispered to Meta, “ The poor dear in- 
nocent! How much did you ‘soak him,’ as Rod 
says? ” 

“ Only a dollar and a quarter,” returned Meta, 
with a red face. “ I couldn’t bear to rob him. As 
it is, I shall never dare to look him in the face 
again ! ” 

“ Oh, he’ll forgive you. He loves a joke.” Isa- 
bel was reassuring. 

“ My conscience hurts. You and Rod will have 
to stand by me.” 

“ You won’t need any support.” 

Other purchasers, long neglected, were picking 
over the articles left on the tables, and the girls went 
back to their places. 

In a few minutes, Monsieur and Madame D’Al- 
bert came to buy from Isabel. They were dear 
friends of hers, and she was devoted to their little 
French baby. “ What do you think, mademoi- 
selle? ” said Madame D’Albert, an attractive young 
woman with a clear olive skin and black hair, — 
“ what do you think? The grandmother of le petit 
Louis sent some money to buy him a little present. 
And we thought it would be right if we could pur- 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 31 

chase something here, so that the money could go 
to some petit Louis in Belgium.” 

“ That’s very beautiful, Madame,” said Isabel, 
smiling across the table. “ I wonder if I have any- 
thing that would be nice enough. Things have been 
picked over so much, and there weren’t very many 
for children, to begin with. But yes, I forgot this ! ” 
She pointed to a shallow silver porringer, with flat 
ears projecting at the sides. “ It costs a good deal 
— but it’s a darling, and so is le petit Louis! ” 

“ It is the very thing,” announced Monsieur 
D’ Albert solemnly. “ The grandmother would be 
well pleased. But is it not too costly for our 
means? ” He rolled his soft brown eyes inquiringly 
at Isabel. 

“ We must have it,” Madame was saying. “ He 
will soon be big enough to sit up and eat from it, and 
Monsieur can take a photograph and send it to 
la petite grand’mere.” She took the porringer up 
in eager hands. 

Isabel had furtively removed the price-mark. 
But after all the grandmother’s money and Mrs. 
Goldthwaite’s price were not irreconcilable, and the 
young father flutteringly laid down the bills, while 
Madame ran her fingers lovingly around the smooth 
circle of the dish. 

When Monsieur had stowed the porringer safely 
away in his rain-coat pocket, Madame stopped to 
speak to Isabel. “ You must come to see us soon. 
We miss you when you stay away.” 

“ I’m coming in a day or two.” Isabel felt a pang 
of self-reproach. “ I love to go. But Winger 
Park seems so far away when one is busy ! ” 


32 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

“ I am afraid you lead the life of the butterfly, 
Mademoiselle Isabel.” 

“ Oh, no ! far from it. It seems sometimes more 
like the life of the snail — I’m so slow about doing 
all the things I want to do.” 

“ I always think of you as some creature that flies 
through the air — one of those bright little finches, 
all gay colors and sweet voice.” 

Isabel gave the lady a grateful look. “ Thank 
you, dear Madame,” she murmured. “ You always 
say the perfect thing.” So the friends parted in mu- 
tual satisfaction. 

The hour was now growing late. The dusk had 
settled down, misty and blue; and through the wide 
windows of the shop the arc lights in the streets 
glittered orange-red in the fog. The huge white 
bulk of the Capitol Building shone out in the twi- 
light, its pillars ascending into obscurity. 

“ Time to go home, I think,” said Isabel, yawn- 
ing. Customers had become few and hurried. 
Rodney and George Burnham had said good-by and 
gone, some time since. 

“ Yes, I think we may as well close,” said Mrs. 
Goldthwaite. “ I don’t believe it’s worth while to 
keep open any longer. We have certainly had a 
good sale, considering the weather.” 

“ It’s been pretty strenuous,” commented Isabel. 
“ And I’m so hungry it’s hardly safe for any one to 
come near me. I hope Olga will have dinner on 
time.” 

“ I’m so glad I’m going home with you,” said 
Meta, whose vitality seemed unimpaired after the 
really exhausting activities of the day. 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 33 

“ So’m I — and Miss Meade, too.” 

Miss Meade had put on her wraps, and now stood 
ready while the others put on theirs. Mrs. Gold- 
thwaite stayed to lock up and turn things over to the 
janitor. 

The three young women hurried home in the moist 
April dusk, tired but jubilant with the results of their 
toil. “ A lot of Belgian babies will grow fat on 
what we’ve garnered in,” said Miss Meade, stepping 
cautiously between the puddles. 

“ I hope so, poor little souls,” returned Isabel 
from under her dripping umbrella. “ I sometimes 
think we all ought to live on corn-meal mush and 
wear our oldest clothes until every bit of that terrible 
suffering is relieved.” 

“ It’s so hard to realize it when it’s so far away,” 
sighed Meta, as hundreds of other people have said 
and sighed. 

Stamping, and shaking the rain from their clothes, 
the three friends rushed up the Carleton steps, and 
soon, relieved of wraps and umbrellas, hastened into 
the sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning on 
the hearth. 

“ Oh, isn’t this heavenly!” They spoke in a 
chorus as they looked about the comfortable room. 
On the table a low lamp with a yellow silk shade 
diffused a mellow light. Daffodils stood in glass 
jars upon the mantel, and a pot of delicate pink 
azaleas glowed on a wicker hour-glass stool in the 
bow window. 

“ Fire and flowers give a charm that nothing else 
can,” exulted Olivia Meade, taking the wing-chair 
which Isabel pulled out for her. 


34 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


“ I love ’em,” said Isabel. “ Oh, here’s Fanny. 
She’s both.” 

Fanny, tall for her fifteen years, came in rather 
primly and shook hands with the guests. She had 
exchanged her Peter Thompson school suit for a 
buff linen with a black velvet tie, very becoming to 
her girlish face and figure. 

Mrs. Carleton came in, a moment later, welcoming 
the guests with her usual gracious hospitality. “ Did 
you have a good day, in spite of the rain?” she 
asked. 

“ We did wonders,” Miss Meade replied, as she 
drew her knitting from a gay silk bag. “We were 
just crowing over the feast that the babies are going 
to have.” 

“ My heart bleeds for the women and children in 
these fearful times,” said Mrs. Carleton from her 
seat on the sofa. “ Sometimes I can’t sleep for 
thinking about them.” 

“Yes; but great things for women will come out 
of this war, I believe,” answered Olivia, over the 
gray sock which she was knitting. “ They are learn- 
ing to take their real place in the world.” 

“ And they’ll have to have some recognition for 
it, too,” cried Meta fiercely. “ They can’t go on 
forever, being treated as if they had no intelli- 
gence ! ” Her eyes snapped as she spoke. 

“ If they can take men’s places, they can think 
as well as men about what the laws ought to be, and 
who ought to be elected,” said Olivia calmly; and 
then she stopped to count a row of stitches. 

“ Nobody can stop them,” remarked Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ When the world gets ready for a change 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 35 

of policy and action, nothing can keep it from com- 
ing. Conservative people may hold back and kick 
and scream all they like, but the great event comes 
on relentlessly.” 

“ It’s that way with suffrage, isn’t it, mother?” 
said Fanny. “ What’s the use of getting excited and 
ranting and calling names, when it’s bound to come 
anyway? ” 

“ It’s rather thrilling to call names and rant,” 
spoke up Isabel, who had been too tired to talk. 
“ Why not do it while one has the chance? ” 

“ Well, I want my say,” cried Meta, more sav- 
agely than before. “ I want to shout out what I 
think about it. The way women have been kept 
down is something unbelievable — something — ” 

“ Good evening, ladies,” said a voice from the 
door. Professor Carleton came in from the hall. 
In his hand he carried a paper parcel. 

“Oh!” Isabel touched Meta on the arm. 
“ The plate ! ” she whispered. 

“ I intended getting home earlier,” explained the 
professor; “but Lenner insisted on my going into 
the Club to meet a friend of his. I bought a little 
gift for you at the rummage-sale,” he added as he 
turned to Mrs. Carleton. The three conspirators 
were watching the scene with eager eyes. 

Mrs. Carleton took the parcel, a pleased expres- 
sion glowing in her face. “ That was very sweet of 
you,” she said, giving her husband’s hand a caressing 
touch. Then she threw him a startled look, as the 
greenness of the plate became visible through its 
inner wrapping of tissue paper. At last the plate 
came out in all its unabashed brilliancy of green. 


36 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

Mrs. Carleton held it at arm’s length and gazed 
wildly around. She uttered a startled cry. “ Why, 
Arthur, where did you get this? ” Her face was so 
funny that the others jumped in their chairs with 
delight. 

u Why, I told you — at the Belgian Relief,” an- 
swered the professor with a bewildered glance 
around the room. 

Mrs. Carleton began to laugh hysterically, and 
the others joined in, with merry shouts. “ Oh, 
Arthur, Arthur! It’s the plate that Isabel took 
from here — one I wanted to get rid of,” she gasped. 
“ Isabel took it to the sale ! ” 

“ Not really? ” The professor’s face was rueful. 
“ The very same? ” He laughed, too, in rather a 
sorry way. “ But why did you let me — ? ” He 
turned to Isabel, but her mischievously twinkling 
eyes gave the conspiracy away. “ I see now. You 
‘ put up a job ’ on your poor old father. And you 
were in it, too ! ” He turned in mock severity to 
Meta, who was hopping up and down with hilarity. 

“ Father, that’s one on you,” Isabel exclaimed 
breathlessly, after a long ripple of laughter. 
ft Now, show mother the watch-rack that you bought 
at the sale.” 

Hesitatingly Professor Carleton put his hand into 
his coat pocket, and pulled out the parcel, and g&ve 
it to Mrs. Carleton to undo. She tore off the wrap- 
pings and revealed the carved box, with its white 
edelweiss surrounded by leaves and buds. 

“ Is it the same one I used to have? ” asked the 
professor humbly, as he looked appealingly at his 
wife. “ Don’t tell me it is ! ” 


A Green Plate and a Yellow Jar 37 

“ The identical object,” laughed Mrs. Carleton, 
while the others shrieked again at the victim’s comi- 
cal grimace. “ It’s been on the shelf in the hall 
closet for three or four years. Oh, Arthur, Arthur ! 
you’re hopeless ! ” 

“ Well, Laura, I see that you and I are fated to 
keep our treasures,” sighed the professor, as he went 
to put the wrapping papers into the fire. “ Nothing 
can wrest them from us. But I don’t suppose I’ll 
hear the last of this escapade while I dwell on this 
terrestrial sphere.” He gazed reproachfully at 
Isabel and Fanny. 

“ Not if we can help it, Popsey,” Fanny assured 
him. “ It’s too delicious a joke to forget. We’ll 
remind you of it — don’t worry.” 

“ Dinner is served,” said Olga, coming quietly to 
the door. 

“ Wild horses couldn’t keep me back,” cried Isa- 
bel, jumping up eagerly. “ I feel like a starving 
Belgian myself.” 

“ I’ll put the green plate at your place, father,” 
said Fanny, as they all trooped out for dinner. 


CHAPTER III 

AFFAIRS DOMESTIC 

D URING the swiftly flitting months of the win- 
ter, Isabel had been studying hard at college. 
She had settled into the routine of work, to which, 
in the first few weeks, it had seemed that she could 
never become adjusted. 

“ I’m getting so that I can lift the burden of the 
day’s tasks without groaning,” she said lightly to* 
Fanny one morning at breakfast, which they were 
eating together, the others having finished before 
them. 

“ You don’t take it half so hard as you did,” ad- 
mitted Fanny, putting two heaping spoonfulsi of 
sugar into her coffee. 

“ So much of the studying has to be done just by 
reading things in the library,” Isabel went on. 
“ It’s not so dreadfully hard to sit and read some 
interesting book and take notes on it.” 

“ But if the book isn’t interesting, it must be a 
bore,” commented Fanny. “ This grape-fruit is 
dreadfully sour.” 

“ Have another half-pound of sugar,” said Isabel, 
handing Fanny the sugar-bowl. “ Yes, but most of 
the books are all right,” she continued. “ You can 
always remember that they were real people who 
did the things that history is made up of. If you 
have any imagination at all, you can see the people 
38 


Affairs Domestic 39 

taking part in the doings that you have to know 
about — Queen Elizabeth, and Leicester, and the 
Charleses, and William Pitt, and the rest. You can 
sort of conjure them up again, and it seems like a 
moving-picture.” 

“ You can’t do that with geometry,” grumbled 
Fanny. “ I defy anybody to make much of a movie 
out of that.” Fanny made no secret of the fact 
that she despised mathematics. 

“ I’ll confess it is a little hard to imagine a very 
thrilling drama out of parallelopipeds and penta- 
gons. I believe I should prefer Mary Pickford.” 
Isabel smiled over her breakfast food. 

“ If I scratch through in geometry this year,” said 
Fanny vehemently, “ you’ll never catch me mixing 
up with anything that looks like a figure again. I’ll 
run a mile if I see one.” 

“ One doesn’t need much mathematics in this 
world,” conceded Isabel. “ I’ve never needed to do 
anything but subtract one sum of dollars-and-cents 
from another. And I don’t really need that, for I 
know how much I have, and then I know when it’s 
all gone.” 

“ One doesn’t have to more than count up to ten,” 
mourned Fanny. “ And all this yow-yowing about 
right angles and hypothenuses seems such a waste of 
valuable time. Why, I could learn to play a hun- 
dred pieces while I’m floundering through one old 
geometry-book.” 

“ Your language is expressive if not elegant,” re- 
turned Isabel, breaking a piece of toast. “ But, 
you know, grown-up people wouldn’t think you were 
getting anything out of your school if you weren’t 


40 


Isabel Garletori s Friends 


suffering a little. They set great store by the suffer- 
ing. You ought to hear ’em. I stopped at the door 
of one of the rooms in the Library building, where 
the Teachers’ Association was having a meeting, 
and I heard one man say — ” 

“ What’d he look like? ” asked Fanny. 

“ Oh, he had a low collar and a bulging forehead; 
he looked well enough. He said, ‘ H-h-m, fellow- 
teachers, we must never forget the general educa- 
tional value of — h-h-m — stringent application to 
a — h-h-m — severe mathematical and scientific cur- 
riculum ! ’ ” Isabel coughed pompously between the 
words. 

“ I’m glad he doesn’t teach me,” said Fanny, be- 
ginning on her cream-of-wheat. “ They don’t all 
want you to suffer; but how can you help it, when you 
have to spend years on a lot of stuff that you don’t 
like? If Mr. Stacy wasn’t just as patient with me 
as forty Jobs, I think I’d tear my geometry up into 
little bits and trample on it, some day in class. I’d 
jump up and down and scream.” 

“ That would be a spectacle. Miss Frances 
Carleton expelled from the high school for jumping 
on her geometry and squealing, in class ! ” 

“ I’ll try to restrain myself. But it’s pretty 
bad.” 

“ You’ll soon finish that bugbear.” 

“ If I pass,” groaned Fanny. 

“ Oh, you’ll pass. For goodness’ sake don’t be- 
gin to worry about exams till you have to. That 
way madness lies.” 

“ It seems to me I’ve seen you get pretty scared, 
about quiz-time,” retorted Fanny. “ It hasn’t been 


Affairs Domestic 41 

so very long since you couldn’t eat any lunch, for 
fussing over a quiz in something-or-other.” 

“ Oh, well, college subjects are so much more 
difficult than high school studies.” Isabel spoke in 
an unconsciously patronizing tone. “ And it makes 
so much more difference whether you do well or 
not.” 

“ High school stuff is just as hard in proportion, 
Miss Top-lofty,” returned the younger girl angrily, 
“ and just as important. You needn’t think that 
you college folks are of so much more account in 
this world than other people. I can remember when 
you were in the high school — and it’s not so very 
long ago, either — you thought your standings and 
your running for class-president and your valedic- 
tory essay were the most em-phat-i-cally important 
things on earth.” 

Isabel stared at Fanny, and then her face relaxed 
into a slow smile. “ I am afraid that I shall have 
to admit that Little Sister is right,” she murmured 
thoughtfully. “ I guess I did take myself with awful 
seriousness. Ugh! that class-president business was 
horrid. I don’t want ever to be reminded of it 
again. And I was simply scared blue when it came 
to giving my graduation ‘ spiel.’ Isn’t it funny how 
we forget these things? ” 

“ It ought to make you have a little more sympa- 
thy for those who are going through the same ex- 
periences,” protested Fanny, somewhat mollified by 
her sister’s concessions. 

“ It ought to, but it doesn’t,” replied Isabel cheer- 
fully. “ Now, a few years from to-day, you’ll be 
patronizing Celia, just as you say I patronize you.” 


42 


Isabel Garletori s Friends 


“ I never shall,” maintained Fanny. “ You see if 
I do.” 

“ We’ll see, Fan. I can’t believe that our Infant 
Prodigy is so wonderfully superior to her relatives 
and friends.” 

“ I think you’re mean, Isabel.” Fanny hated 
being called Infant Prodigy. 

Olga came in with the bacon and eggs and the 
girls finished their breakfast almost in silence. 

“ Thank heaven, this isn’t my morning for an 
eight o’clock,” said Isabel, as they got up from the 
table. “ I’ll have time to do my room — and yours, 
too, Fan, if you want to work on your geometry.” 

“ I’d like to have fifteen minutes on it,” answered 
Fanny. “ I’d be much obliged if you would 
straighten my room a little, and make the bed.” 

“ All right. But maybe I can help you with the 
problem that you didn’t get last night.” 

“ Mr. Stacy doesn’t like us to get help if we can 
possibly struggle on without it,” said Fanny in her 
honest way. “ I think I’ll try it alone.” 

“ Well, go on and peg away, then. I’m sure you 
can get it,” said Isabel encouragingly, as she turned 
to go upstairs. 

While she made the two beds and set the rooms 
to rights, Isabel thought about the studying which 
she had done that year. She had worked hard; but, 
as she had just said to Fanny, things had gone hap- 
pily after the first weeks of adjustment, and she had 
done exceedingly well. “ But it’s really not like the 
high school,” she said to herself. “ There’s a lot 
more competition, and one has to do better in order 
to shine. The valedictorians from hundreds of 


Affairs Domestic 43 

schools are there, and you have to * get up early/ in 
order to make any showing at all.” 

She stopped in the task of straightening the books 
in Fanny’s book-case, and was on her knees, think- 
ing deeply, when her mother entered, in her big 
apron, with an armful of clean clothes. 

“ What are you dreaming about?” asked Mrs. 
Carleton, putting the things away in a dresser 
drawer. 

“ I was admitting to myself, unwillingly enough,” 
said Isabel, “ that I’m probably going to be only 
one of the ‘ also ran’s ’ at the University. I do well 
enough, you know, but I’m not at all sure that I’ll 
get a Phi Beta Kappa. You don’t mind, do you? ” 

“ Mind? Why, no, of course not. Your father 
and I like you to do well, but we don’t want you 
to work too hard to get honors, nor worry if you 
don’t get them. We want you to have some whole- 
some pleasure in life, you know.” 

“ I have the greatest respect for the Phi Beta 
Kappa people — I don’t want to belittle them in the 
least; but I’m not going to pine away if I don’t get 
a chance to join them.” Isabel got up and began to 
walk about thoughtfully. 

“ You’re doing four years’ work in three, any- 
way,” said her mother. “ That ought to be 
enough.” 

“And my jewelry work,” cried Isabel enthusias- 
tically. “ How glad I am that I did study while I 
was in Europe, so that I was able to make up all 
that time, and get a chance at the handicraft courses. 
And of course the Fund has meant a good deal of 
labor for me, but that’s been a joy, too.” 


44 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


“ Yes, it’s very gratifying,” smiled Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ I must go down and order the groceries, and 
help Olga plan lunch and dinner.” 

“For your pack of hungry wolves! One snap 
and a lick of their chops, and your whole day’s work 
has disappeared.” 

“ They have to be appeased! ” 

“ I suppose you’re afraid that if you don’t have 
roast lamb and salad enough for them, they’ll turn 
and gobble you.” 

“ It wouldn’t do to risk it,” laughed Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ Oh, there’s the telephone. Who’s calling 
up now? If it weren’t for the telephone, one might 
get some work done.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” answered Isabel. 
“ If people didn’t telephone, they’d do their errands 
in person, and that would be worse.” 

“ Which reminds me of what some wise person 
has said, — ‘ Progress is exchanging one nuisance for 
another.’ Yes, Olga, I’m coming.” 

Mrs. Carleton ran hastily downstairs, and Isabel 
went to dress for her classes. While she was hook- 
ing her gown, she heard Fanny calling from the foot 
of the stairs, “ Hi, Izzy! I got it.” 

“ I knew you would,” shouted Isabel in reply. 

“ It was easy as pie, after I saw how,” added 
Fanny, and the front door slammed behind her. 

Isabel sat down to copy a theme before she went 
to class. The sounds of household activity came to 
her faintly from below, — the rattling of dishes, the 
burr of the carpet-sweeper, the gruff voice of the 
ice-man, who was late and didn’t care. 

“ I wonder whether I ought to cut out this flowery 


Affairs Domestic 


45 


phrase?” Isabel pondered. “It says just what I 
mean, but it may be rather gushy.” Her instructor 
abhorred flowery phrases, and she had an outspoken 
fear of his caustic tongue. “ He’d probably stab me 
with an epigram,” she mumbled, running her pen 
through the offending group of words on the first 
draught of the theme. She hurried to finish her 
copying; glanced at the clock, bundled her books and 
papers together; pinned on her hat, and hastened 
downstairs, and out into the warm April sunshine. 

In the upper hall of the Home Arts building, she 
met Miss Phelps, her handicraft teacher, a quiet, 
bright-eyed young woman, with delicate, skillful 
hands. “ I wanted to tell you, Miss Carleton,” said 
Miss Phelps, looking pleased, “ that some people 
were in here to see our permanent exhibit, late yes- 
terday afternoon, and a woman liked that ring that 
you made, and wanted to know whether you would 
sell it. She said it was exactly what her young 
daughter would like.” 

“ Of course I would,” answered Isabel quickly. 
“ I’d be glad to.” She was more pleased, herself, 
than she cared to show. “ That’s what I expect to 
do with my work, eventually — why not now? ” 

“ I thought you would sell it,” Miss Phelps went 
on. “ It’s always well to sell things when you get 
a chance, even if you haven’t planned to. One sale 
leads to another, you know.” 

“Yes; and I do so want to be independent,” 
sighed the girl. 

“You will be,” said Miss Phelps in a friendly 
tone. “ I prophesy that for you.” 

“ I think women ought to be self-supporting as 


46 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

much as they possibly can,” Isabel said, thinking 
aloud, “ and I’ve never really earned a cent yet, 
except once when I did a little tutoring.” 

“ Now’s your chance,” said Miss Phelps with a 
smile. “ I took the woman’s address and I’m to 
let her know.” 

“ I hope the ring will give her daughter as much 
pleasure as my pearl and coral one did me when I 
first had it,” said Isabel, as she held up her finger 
to show the ring which her father had brought her 
from Chicago, two years before. “ I wanted a 
chrysoprase ring that I saw down at Miss Titus’s, 
and I thought my life was blighted because I couldn’t 
have it. Sometime I’m going to make one exactly 
like the one that slipped away from me then.” 

“ Better wait till you’ve had a little more experi- 
ence,” said Miss Phelps. “ That turquoise pendant 
that you’re making is about all you can manage 
now, don’t you think? ” 

“ I surely do. Thank you for helping me to sell 
the ring.” 

“ Don’t mention it. I’ll let you know as soon 
as I hear.” 

All day Isabel rejoiced in the prospect of begin- 
ning to be a worker in the world, of being independ- 
ent, — a state of which she had dreamed a good 
deal in times of financial pressure. She did not say 
anything at home. “ I think it’s better to keep still 
about things until they have developed a little,” she 
said to herself. 

Two days afterward, Miss Phelps gave her the 
check for the ring, which was to be sent by regis- 




“ You now behold a wage-earner in the great commercial 
world,” she said solemnly. 


Affairs Domestic 


47 


tered mail. Isabel stared at the slip of paper, and 
then put it carefully away in her purse. It seemed 
almost sacred to her, a kind of symbol of happy 
work and fair return which were to be hers in the 
future. She hastened to do up the ring and take 
it to the Post Office before she went home after her 
classes were over. 

When she got home, she called Fanny aside and 
showed her the check. “ You now behold a wage- 
earner in the great commercial world,” she said sol- 
emnly. 

“How on earth did you get it?” cried Fanny. 
“ Is it a real one? ” she asked incredulously. “ Can 
you get money for it? ” 

“ You’ll see. Father will cash it for me, and 
turn it in at the State Bank.” 

“ Well, but how did you get it? ” 

“ Guess.” 

“ Oh, I can’t guess. Did you tutor some one?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you give a lecture to the Woman’s Club on 
‘ What I Saw in Europe ’ ? ” 

“ Now, Fan, don’t be satirical. I sold that ring 
that I made, — the one that was in the permanent 
exhibit in the Crafts Room.” Isabel spoke with 
pardonable triumph to her skeptical sister. 

“ Honest? And got all that for it! ” 

“ That isn’t so very much. The materials cost 
quite a little. But I feel rich, I might as well con- 
fess. This will buy a lot of stuff to make up into 
silver things. It’s so nice to have earned it my- 
self.” Isabel folded the check with satisfaction. 


4 8 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


“I should think it is!” commented Fanny gen- 
erously. “ I’m awfully glad you could do it, Goldi- 
locks.” 

“ It gives me a new start in life,” said Isabel. 
“ I feel as if I could do wonders.” 

“ I don’t doubt that you can,” sighed Fanny. 
“ All I can do is see-saw away on the violin a little, 
and folks always expect you to do that for nothing, 
no matter how much it costs you to learn.” 

“ You’ll probably be getting fabulous sums for it 
some day,” said Isabel comfortingly. “ And I’ll sit 
in the cheapest seat in the gallery, in my old patched 
clothes, and see you come out all decked up in velvet 
and jools that have been presented to you by the 
crowned heads of Europe — if there are any heads 
left when this war is over — and you’ll draw your 
bow across the strings with one long low wailing ex- 
quisite cadence — ” 

“ Oh, hush up, Isabel,” interrupted Fanny, grin- 
ning in spite of herself. “ Come on, and let’s tell 
the family of your stroke of fortune.” 

“ I hope they won’t think me a mercenary wretch, 
selling my art for a few florins,” said Isabel. 

“ Never fear. They’ll be glad to look forward 
to your keeping ’em out of the poor-house.” 

“ It’ll be a long time before I can promise to do 
that.” 

The family received the news with satisfying won- 
der and delight. “ What are you going to do with 
so much money?” asked Professor Carleton teas- 
ingly, as he took out his wallet, preparatory to cash- 
ing the check. 

“ I’m going to buy more materials with it.” 


Affairs Domestic 


49 


“ Ah, I see. It’s like the ancient story of the boy 
whose mother paid him a penny for each dose of 
castor-oil that he took.” 

“ Well, what about it, daddy? ” 

u Some one asked him what he did with so much 
money, and he said, ‘ Oh, mother uses it to buy more 
castor-oil ! ’ ” 

“ That’s my state exactly,” chuckled Isabel as she 
reached for the crisp bills which her father handed 
to her. “ And I’m going to make this buy just as 
much castor-oil as it possibly can ! ” 

She went away beaming happily over the reward 
of honest effort and earnest toil. 

In the course of the same week in which the epi- 
sode of the check occurred, a domestic incident was 
working itself out. 

The reader may remember Mr. Christian Eve- 
stad, who was a guest at Olga’s anniversary party 
in the fall. The Carletons had by spring become 
accustomed to seeing the worthy Christian, in his 
neat readymade clothes, sitting in the kitchen, lin- 
gering on the back porch, or walking soberly away 
at a dignified hour, after taking Olga to the moving- 
pictures and bringing her home again. 

“ Olga is doomed, that’s easy to be seen,” said 
Isabel one evening after dinner. “ There’s a dif- 
ferent light in her eye; she looks as if she had a 
happy secret.” 

u She’s frizzing her hair, too,” remarked Fanny, 
who was looking at the pictures in a new magazine. 
“ And she bought a pair of shoes with high heels. 
I call those both very bad signs.” 


$o Isabel Carleton s Friends 

“ That isn’t the worst,” sighed Mrs. Carleton, 
over her knitting. “ She’s been hemming sheets in 
her room, and putting cross-stitched initials on 
towels.” 

“ Then we’re done for,” groaned Isabel. “ Now, 
Fanny, here, is responsible for all this. She started 
this match-making last fall at Olga’s party. I 
should think you’d be conscience-stricken, now, Miss 
Fan, when you see how you’ve skinned your family 
out of a perfectly good Swedish maid.” 

“ I never did,” protested Fanny, getting red, 
and shutting the magazine with a jerk. a He’d 
taken Olga to the movies two or three times before 
that. And anyway,” she went on, “ I’m glad that 
Olga is going to have a home of her own, and not 
have to work in somebody’s kitchen all her life.” 

“ She’ll probably have to work in her own 
kitchen,” Isabel remarked drily. 

“ That’s different. And besides, the honest 
Christian may get to be a contractor, or whatever 
it’s called, and make money. Olga may lead so- 
ciety in Jefferson yet. Who knows?” 

“ Nothing surprises me,” said Mrs. Carleton with 
another sigh. “ America is a free country. What 
I’m thinking of is, how I’m going to get another 
maid.” 

“ Wait till the blow falls,” advised Isabel practi- 
cally. “ Men are fickle creatures. Maybe he’ll 
find some one else.” 

“ No danger, now that he’s sampled Olga’s cook- 
ing,” warned Fanny, going back to her magazine. 

The blow fell the very next day, as if talking 
about it had brought it on. 


Affairs Domestic 51 

Mrs. Carleton had sat down in her own room to 
re-sew the buttons and belts on some “ bought ” 
aprons for Celia, and Isabel was loitering on the 
couch before going to her three o’clock class. Olga 
tapped at the open door, and stood hesitating on the 
threshold. There were, indeed, frizzes on her 
smooth white forehead; and there was, indeed, a 
happy light in her kind blue eyes. She looked very 
neat and capable and earnest, in her blue gingham 
house-dress, with white collar and elbow-cuffs. 

“What is it, Olga?” asked Mrs. Carleton ap- 
prehensively. 

“ Missis Carleton — I — I haf soomthing to tell 
you — soomthings — ” Olga had learned to speak 
very well, but in her nervousness she dropped into 
the broad accent of her earlier years in America. 
She twisted her fingers into the plaits of her skirt. 

Mrs. Carleton let her sewing fall into her lap. 
“ I know, Olga,” she said helpfully, “ you’re going 
to be married to Mr. Evestad.” 

Olga gave a gulp of relief. “ Yes, that’s it. 
That’s what I wanted to say.” 

“ We saw it coming, Olga,” said Isabel; and the 
maid turned to the younger girl with a grateful if 
embarrassed smile. 

“ I’m ever so sorry you’re leaving us,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, trying not to show how really sorry she 
was. “You’ve been a wonderful help. But we 
want you to be happy.” 

“ He’s a nice kind man, we’re sure,” put in Isabel. 

“ Yes, Miss, he is good. I think I be happy.” 

“When do you expect to be married?” asked 
Mrs. Carleton, as if desirous of knowing the worst. 


$2 


Isabel Carleton s Friends 


u In two — t’ree weeks, Missis Carleton.” 

“ So soon?” The lady looked distressed for a 
moment. “ Well, well, we shall get on somehow, 
Olga. Go ahead, and make your plans as you 
choose.” 

“ I’m sorry to go — but — you know — ” Olga 
looked at Isabel for encouragement. 

“ Yes, we know, Olga,” laughed the girl. “ We 
wouldn’t put a straw in your way.” 

“ Thank you, Miss Isabel.” 

“ I’ll talk it over with you in a day or two,” said 
Mrs. Carleton. “ We want you to have things just 
as you’d like them.” 

“ Thank you, Missis Carleton.” Olga turned 
away with joy and relief upon her honest face. 

“ She’s glad to get it over,” Isabel remarked sym- 
pathetically. 

Mrs. Carleton lifted her sewing in an absent way, 
and began taking stitches in • a sash. “ It doesn’t 
seem as if I could keep house without Olga,” she 
said dejectedly. “ She’s slow, but she’s so faithful 
and neat, and she knows just how I like to have 
things done.” There was unusual dismay in the 
housewife’s eyes, and she worked at the pink ging- 
ham pinafore. “ Well, the Lord will have to pro- 
vide,” she added resignedly. 

“ We’ll have to do something for her, shan’t we, 
mother?” Isabel looked at the clock, and rose 
to go. 

“ Yes. But I suppose she will want the wedding 
at her sister’s. If it were not for that, we could 
make a wedding for her here. But we can give her 
a wedding dress, if she hasn’t already planned one., 


Affairs Domestic 


S3 

Don’t you think a nice flounced embroidery gown 
would be right? ” 

“ I should think so. And a veil. They all want 
a veil.” 

“ Yes — of pretty, fine white net. It will be be- 
coming to Olga, with her lovely complexion and her 
nice hair.” 

The next day, Mrs. Stuart, Mrs. Carleton’s 
mother, came in from Dalton for a day’s shopping. 
She listened to the story of Olga’s romance, and the 
bereaved housekeeper’s lamentations. “ What am I 
going to do, mother? ” Mrs. Carleton said at last. 

Mrs. Stuart, a bright old woman, with white hair 
and very keen dark eyes, smiled at her daughter’s 
distress. “ Why, I know what you can do, for a 
while, at least,” she said reassuringly. “ I’ll lend 
you Melissy.” 

“ Oh, mother ! can you spare her? ” Mrs. Carle- 
ton looked rather nonplussed. She was not sure 
whether she wanted Melissy or not. 

“ Yes, I can spare her. She’d love to come to 
the city and see things. She has a pathetically eager 
soul. I know a woman who will come and help me 
while Melissy is with you.” 

“ That will be fine,” said Mrs. Carleton, looking 
relieved. “ Can Melissy do the work here, do you 
think? ” 

“ She will run the family for you, if you like,” 
answered Mrs. Stuart, with her eyes twinkling. 
“ And she’ll afford you diversion, if nothing more.” 

“ Yes, she’ll do that.” The Carletons all knew 
Melissy, because they had visited many times at 
Grandfather’s stock-farm, just outside of the little 


54 


Isabel Garletoris Friends 


town of Dalton. “ Well, I shall look forward to 
her arrival,” said Mrs. Carleton. “ I hope we can 
arrange things so that Melissy can come the same 
day that Olga goes. And now that’s another do- 
mestic difficulty straightened out.” 


CHAPTER IV 

THE CANTON FLANNEL APE 



HE week slipped quickly away, and brought 


Saturday, the day of the University Circus. 
Meta was going with George Burnham, who could 
get away from the office on Saturday, and of course 
had no part in the performance. Rodney was one 
of the troupe. In this gay spring carnival, no hard- 
working engineering student was too reserved to 
throw his dignity to the winds and engage in the 
most hilarious of antics. 

Isabel was going with Olivia Meade. As the two 
young women came out from behind the trees which 
surrounded the Library, they gave a gasp, for they 
saw that the balloon ascension was taking place. 
The big dark globe hung wavering over the lake, and 
from a trapeze dangled the figure of a man sus- 
pended by his hands above the great gulf of air and 
water. 

“ Oh-h! ” The heart of Isabel gave a leap of 
horror. She covered her eyes that she might not 
see the rash creature plunge headlong to his death. 

Then Olivia began to laugh. “ Look, Miss 
Carleton,” she cried, with a quiver of relief in her 
own voice. “ Don’t you see that it’s only a 
dummy? ” 

Isabel stared at the limp dangling figure. “ Why, 


55 


56 Isabel Carletori s Friends 

of course it is,” she said, drawing a long breath. 
“ I’m really all in a tremble. We might have 
known; but those boys do such dreadfully reckless 
things sometimes. They’ve never had a balloon 
ascension before, since I’ve been going to the Cir- 
cuses.” 

“ I don’t believe they’d risk their necks to please 
the populace,” remarked Miss Meade. “ I’m glad 
we’re a little early, so that we can view the animals 
and get good seats before the crowd pours in.” 

The Circus was held in the Armory, a huge red 
brick building on the bank of the lake, opposite the 
lower campus. The animal “ tent ” was an annex 
to the Armory, where small squads of the freshmen 
could drill in rainy weather. 

In the first cage, which was mounted on a wagon 
in regulation circus style, was a tall giraffe with a 
spotted hide, and an odd-looking head waving 
eagerly above the bars. The hind feet appeared 
strangely like a pair of men’s shoes, though half 
hidden by the straw. 

“ He’s a perfectly good giraffe,” said Isabel specu- 
latively, “ but I suspect that I should recognize his 
voice if I should hear him speak.” 

They went on, to the cage where a ramping lion 
with a very lumpy body was pacing back and forth 
in his narrow room, occasionally roaring a lusty 
roar and clacking two unnaturally red jaws. 

“ He looks as if he’d just come out of the story of 
The Wizard of Oz,” commented Olivia. “ But I 
don’t see any Tin Woodman.” 

In another cage, a huge black snake was coiled 
artistically on a dead tree. The serpent had tiny 


The Canton Flannel Ape $y 

red electric lights for eyes, and looked extremely 
dangerous, in spite of its never moving. 

Look out for the Orang-Outang, warned a sign on 
the outside of the next cage. He’s Fierce . 

“ Our old friend and nearest relative, the mon- 
key,” laughed Olivia. 

They stopped to stare at the gibbering creature 
who clung to the bars of the cage with both paws, 
and rattled the bars savagely. He had a big brown 
body, a trailing tail, and a monkey-faced mask. 
The orang-outang gave a fiercer fling at the bars, 
sounded a terrific gurgle and gibber, and then mur- 
mured in a low voice, “ Hello, Isabel! ” 

“ I never speak to apes,” responded the girl with 
dignity. “ Conversing with engineering students is 
as far as I’ll go in that direction.” 

“ Only a peanut from your fair hand! ” begged 
the ape in a piteous tone. An Italian peanut vendor, 
from whose bearded face peeped two very merry and 
youthful blue eyes, approached the girls with a well- 
heaped basket. Isabel bought a small bag of pea- 
nuts, and she and Olivia amused themselves by 
throwing nuts at the ape, who caught them in his 
agile paws, shelled them, and pushed the meats be- 
neath his mask. 

“ He seems almost intelligent,” vouchsafed Isabel 
in an awed voice. 

“ It’s the company I’m keeping,” rejoined the ape. 

Other sightseers were crowding up. Just then 
Bertram Dodge came along, very handsome and im- 
maculate in a new spring suit. He was a blond 
young man a good deal in evidence about the Uni- 
versity, where he was doing graduate work for a 


58 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

higher degree. His face lighted up when he saw 
Olivia and Isabel. “ Ah, this is delightful,” he ex- 
claimed. “ Why can’t we all sit together, since we 
have so opportunely met?” A blare of music 
sounded from the great hall of the Armory, and the 
two young women, with Bertram Dodge hurried 
away to see the rest of the animals, and then to take 
their places in the “tent,” — with scarcely a back- 
ward glance at the unhappy ape. This aboriginal 
creature, having no need to restrain himself, kicked 
the bars of his cage spitefully and muttered some- 
thing that sounded like “ confounded upstart.” 
The orang-outang had never liked Bertram Dodge. 

Inside the Armory, the trio sat in merry talk, 
swinging their feet between the narrow plank seats 
that rose in tiers around the “ ring ” ; Dodge was 
really diverting, with a cynical style of humor of 
his own. He and Olivia had gone about a good 
deal together, during the winter, and set people’s 
tongues to wagging. Isabel had seen very little of 
him, for she had been busy with her own affairs and 
friends. 

The crowd was coming in very fast now; and the 
seats rapidly filled with gay college students or more 
sober members of the faculty. Almost at the time 
set, the performance began. It is not our purpose 
to describe minutely every event of that long and 
amusing program. There were acrobatic “ stunts,” 
and bareback riding on very docile white horses, 
superannuated circus steeds, it was whispered, from 
the Jingling Brothers’ winter quarters in the little 
town twenty miles “ up the line.” There was bare- 
foot dancing, which burlesqued the antics of a fa- 


The Canton Flannel Ape 


59 


mous dancer, somewhat stout, who had appeared in 
Jefferson a few weeks before; a hulking youth in 
gauze draperies threw himself into ludicrous poses, 
and flung a blue chiffon motor-veil fitfully about, 
greatly to the delight of those who disapproved of 
Madame Theodora. 

Midway in the program the ringmaster with his 
megaphone announced the appearance of a trained 
ape, lately from the professional stage in Zululand. 

A man in high silk hat and evening clothes came 
in, leading the brown ape, who cavorted about his 
master in a winning and affectionate way, which 
placed him at once on good terms with the spec- 
tators. The band struck up a tune, and the ape, 
seizing his master around the waist, drew him into 
a fantastic dance, a weird combination of society 
two-step and the revel of the African jungle. 
Round and round they spun, with grotesque motions 
that brought howls of laughter from the benches. 
Whenever the couple stopped, the loud clapping 
from the audience compelled another bout. At last 
the ape, refusing any further exhibition of his skill, 
bowed long and low, with his paw somewhere in the 
region of his heart. 

Then he did some clever work on the horizontal 
bar, placed for his use by two lackeys; and later he 
distinguished himself by swinging his brown bulk 
from ring to ring, high above the gymnasium floor, 
with the quick graceful ease of the trained athlete. 
It was excellent work, which won a round of honest 
applause quite as hearty as that which the creature’s 
comical capers had received. With tail flapping and 
slapping, the ape retired from the floor in a series of 


6o 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


handsprings which elicited a final whoop of joy from 
the young people on the seats. 

Isabel, who had been sitting upright in rapt atten- 
tion during the ape’s performance, sank back with a 
sigh of relief. 

“ Great stuff ! ” exclaimed the blond Bertram in 
his patronizing tone. “ Who was it, do you know, 
Miss Carleton? ” 

“ A friend of mine, Rodney Fox,” answered Isa- 
bel briefly. She did not want to talk about Rodney 
to B. Dodge. 

“ It was a great success,” commented Olivia 
Meade, furtively glancing at the mirror in the inte- 
rior of her cleverly-stocked handbag. Bertram was 
likely to be irritated if her hair were ruffled or her 
collar awry. 

Isabel, knowing how much it meant among the 
engineering brethren to have each fellow’s “ bag of 
tricks ” well performed and enthusiastically re- 
ceived, was rejoicing over Rodney’s success in the 
odd part which had been assigned him. The rest 
of the program, good as it was, did not have quite 
the zest which the first numbers, full of expectancy 
for her, had possessed. 

After the performance was over, and when those 
seated on the upper benches had climbed perilously 
down to the solid floor, Rodney appeared suddenly 
at Isabel’s elbow, still in his costume of canton flan- 
nel. He shook hands, and then slipped off his mon- 
key-faced mask. 

“Oh, Rod, how you look!” exclaimed Isabel. 
u You’re a weird sight.” He certainly was all of 
that, as he stood with his face held carelessly in his 


The Canton Flannel Ape 61 

hand, and his tail slung over his arm. He showed 
a very hot red countenance of his own, which he 
mopped vigorously with a white handkerchief. 

u That mask is awful,” he remarked, drawing a 
long breath. “ I thought I’d smother in it. But I 
had to appear in the animal tent, until the end of 
things, for the entertainment of those unlucky 
wretches who couldn’t get seats inside. Well, I 
think I’ve done my bit to-day.” 

“ I should say you had,” scolded Isabel. “ Far 
more than you needed to.” 

Olivia and Dodge had sauntered away in the di- 
rection of the refreshment tent. “ Come on and 
have something with me,” suggested Rodney. 
“ Will you do me the honor? ” 

“ Yes, if you aren’t afraid that your master will 
come and recapture you,” laughed the girl. “ You 
make me think of the nursery rhyme : 

“ A was an artful old ape, 

Who tied up his head with a crape, 

And pretended he cried 
When his master had died, — 

This artful, deceitful old ape.” 

“ Inasmuch as my master has dashed away with 
the girl he’s engaged to, I don’t think I need to 
mourn him long,” said Rodney. “ Let’s go, before 
the tables are all taken.” 

They went into the refreshment room, and sat 
down at a small table. A little way off, the lumpy 
lion, with his head pushed back on his shoulders, 
was drinking lemonade thirstily in company with an 
embarrassed looking girl in a dainty gray silk frock. 


62 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


Rodney took up the list of refreshments. “ I 
don’t suppose they have any bread-fruit or cocoanuts 
on this inadequate bill-of-fare,” he grumbled. 
“ What is a poor hungry ape to eat? ” 

“ Can’t you find anything that suits your monkey- 
ship? ” 

“ I suppose that we’ll have to satisfy our hunger 
on poor human junk like ice cream and chocolate 
cake. Does that please your ladyship? ” 

“ Immensely. But don’t let me see you trying to 
ape your betters.” 

A giggling girl-waiter came and took their orders, 
and they were soon devouring their ice cream and 
cake with healthy appetites. 

“ You did that ring-stuff wonderfully,” said Isa- 
bel with appreciation. u I was afraid the crowd 
wouldn’t understand how really good it was, when 
you were in such a crazy costume; but they did.” 

“ I’m glad you liked it,” rejoined the young man. 
“ I worked hard at it. You’ll soon see me swinging 
from tree to tree down . the jungle of Langdon 
Street.” 

“ I expect anything now,” answered Isabel, look- 
ing at some one she knew, across the room. 

With a wicked impulse, Rodney slipped his mask 
on, and glared at Isabel over the little table. 
“Mercy, Rod! You’re too awful for words.” 
Isabel shrank back in her chair. “ You take my 
appetite away.” 

“ Oh, I’m sorry, lady.” Rodney took off the 
mask and hung it on the chair by means of the elastic 
cord at the back. “ I fear I’ve jarred your sensi- 
bilities more than I should have done.” 


The Canton Flannel Ape 63 

“ I don’t want to remember you over Sunday like 
this,” laughed Isabel nervously. 

“ I’ll come over in civilized garb to-night.” 

“ Do, for goodness’ sake. Come to dinner.” 

“ All right. I’ll be delighted.” 

That evening, just before dinner, Rodney arrived, 
extremely correct and elegant in his evening clothes, 
looking very much the fastidious young college man. 
He had seldom been so ceremonious when he came 
to dinner at the Carletons’. Isabel, whom instinct 
had warned, appeared in her best pink satin evening 
gown, with her hair done high, so that she looked 
very much the young lady. 

“ Good evening, Bimi,” said Isabel as she came 
into the sitting-room to greet Rodney. u Do you 
remember that horrible story of Kipling’s about the 
ape named Bimi? I’ve been thinking about it ever 
since I saw you last.” 

“ Well, stop thinking about it now. I’m Bimi no 
longer.” 

“ You don’t look like him. It certainly was a 
descent of man for you to take such a part. Don’t 
ever be an ape again. I like you better as just plain 
Rod.” 

“With my thin veneer of civilization? I’ll try 
henceforth to be as un-ape-like as possible, consider- 
ing my early ancestry. I’m sorry you don’t approve 
me. I thought I’d make a hit in a Darwinian role.” 

“ You may be all right in a Darwinian role, what- 
ever that is, but in brown canton flannel, you’re un- 
speakable.” 

“ Never again,” promised Rodney, grinning. 
“ My monkey days are over.” 


64 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

The entrance of Mrs. Carleton brought him to his 
feet with the most courteous of civilized behavior, 
and at dinner his manners were irreproachable. 

After dinner, Fanny played the piano, and they 
all stood round and sang rollicking vociferous col- 
lege songs, in which neither Professor nor Mrs. 
Carleton disdained to join; then Meta Houston and 
George Burnham came in; and they took up the rugs 
and danced gayly for an hour. They had a happy 
home evening, and no monkeys dared to enter. 

After the guests had gone, Isabel and Fanny went 
upstairs to Isabel’s room. It was not late, and the 
older girl sat down on the edge of the bed, to finish 
a gray scarf which she was knitting. “ I do want 
to get this done before Sunday,” she said, with her 
fingers flying. “ This is the last I’m going to do 
until after Commencement.” 

Fanny sat down on the shirt-waist box and began 
to unlace her shoes. “ The Sigma Nus are having a 
party to-night,” she said cheerfully, “ and I suppose 
we’ll have to hear the music squawking till twelve 
o’clock.” 

“Well, their violins won’t be the first we have 
heard,” said Isabel, who was, at times, secretly irri- 
tated by Fanny’s practicing. Fanny gave her a 
sharp glance, and Isabel hurried to change the sub- 
ject. . “ It’s a real relief not to have been in a 
sorority this year,” she went on, following the line 
of thought she had been pursuing when she came up- 
stairs. “ It sounds wicked to say so, but I’ve en- 
joyed the privileges both of being in and being 
out.” 

“Yes, you’ve been invited to the stunts, and yet 


The Canton Flannel Ape 65 

you’ve been free to roam at large, and mix with the 
ordinary mortals who make up the biggest part of 
the University,” answered Fanny wisely. 

“ It’s been very nice,” said Isabel. It was under- 
stood that she should join the Gamma Deltas as soon 
as a year’s residence at the University permitted her 
to do so. 

“ The Gamma Deltas are a pretty fair sort, aren’t 
they? ” Fanny took off her shoe in a leisurely way 
and laid it aside. “ They have a good time, I know; 
but do they ever do any studying? ” 

“ They study very hard ” responded Isabel with 
dignity. “They’re at it religiously every night — 
except Friday and Saturday and Sunday, of course.” 

“ And Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, I 
suppose,” giggled Fanny. “ Those girls’ll get brain 
fever if they don’t look out.” 

“ Honestly, Fan, they do study.” Isabel was net- 
tled at Fanny’s irreverent remarks on the Gamma 
Deltas. “ They get wonderful marks. Professor 
Mitchell was telling me the other day that he’d 
rather have them in his classes than any other group 
of sorority girls.” She paused in her knitting while 
she looked triumphantly at her sister. 

Fanny laid the second shoe beside the other. 
“ But did he say he’d rather have them in his classes 
than any other girls on earth? ” she asked gravely. 

“ Oh, well, you can’t expect sweeping statements 
of that kind,” sniffed the older girl. “ Never mind, 
Miss Fan, if you don’t approve the G. D.’s, you 
needn’t expect me to drag you in when you get to 
college.” Isabel was knitting very fast, and her 
needles clicked peevishly. 


66 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


“ You aren’t in, yourself, yet,” retorted Fanny 
calmly. 

Isabel flushed and looked uncomfortable. It was 
not considered very good taste to boast about a 
sorority until you were safely in. 

“ And as for being dragged in,” Fanny went on, 
“ if I can’t go in on some merit of my own, I guess 
I’d rather stay out. I get along very well as it is.” 

“ As for our merits,” replied Isabel drily, “ we 
professors’ daughters never know whether we’re in- 
vited into a sorority for our own sweet sakes, or for 
the influence which we can exert over our fathers. 
A professor’s favor counts for a good deal when 
it comes to voting for honors or electing Phi Bet’s.” 

“ The more professors’ daughters there are in a 
‘ frat,’ the better, then?” queried Fanny thought- 
fully, curling her toes in her stocking. 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Then I needn’t worry, as long as father holds 
down his job.” 

“ Retains his position, you mean, I dare say.” 
Isabel looked up disapprovingly. 

“ Call it what you like. Probably there’ll be 
some one to drag me in when the time comes. And 
as I said, I don’t know that I’m wild to get in, any- 
way. I’d hate to get so that I thought I was a lot 
better than somebody else, whose father happened 
to be a bricklayer, or a country preacher.” 

“ If one is going to be a snob, she’ll be one, 
whether she’s in a sorority or not,” answered Isabel. 

“ Maybe. But I’d hate to be one for any rea- 
son. 

“ You never will, Fan. You’re too honest. I’ll 


The Canton Flannel Ape 67 

say that for you. You’re a real American demo- 
crat of the backwoods type. You might be a sister 
to Daniel Boone.” 

“ I’m glad you think so.” Fanny reached, yawn- 
ing, for her shoes. 

“ I don’t believe you’d care whether you were 
associating with a Cabinet minister’s wife or the 
junk man’s daughter,” Isabel continued. 

“ Why should I? ” said Fanny sturdily. 

“ Why, indeed? These discussions on political 
economy are too much for me. Do you know where 
there’s a tape measure? ” Isabel was straightening 
out the scarf on the bed. “ I believe I’ve got this 
long enough.” 

“ I suppose there’s one in mother’s work basket. 
You mean, you want me to go and get it, don’t 
you ? ” 

“Oh, would you, Sister Dear?” 

“ I would if you asked, and didn’t hint.” 

“ Hinting is so much better than asking.” 

“ I don’t find it so.” 

“ I wonder if I pulled out a stitch then? ” Isabel 
hurriedly began counting stitches. “ Fifty-one, fifty- 
two,” she was saying when Fanny came back with the 
tape measure. “ Oh, it’s all right.” She took the 
yellow ribbon that her sister held out to her at arm’s 
length. “ Thanks, pretty creature. I’ll give you a 
thousand dollars — when I make my fortune.” 

Fanny picked up her shoes again. “ I’ll need a 
thousand dollars by that time” she remarked, — 
“ to buy myself a wig and a wheel-chair.” 

Isabel was intently measuring the scarf. “ Oh, 
well,” she answered airily, “ if you’re going to be so 


68 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


ungrateful, I’ll give it to the Old Ladies’ Home.” 

41 Then I’ll get the benefit of it, just the same,” 
f returned Fanny with an ostentatious yawn, as she 
turned away to go to her own room. 

“ Fanny’s a queer little duck,” said Isabel con- 
tritely to herself, when Fanny had gone. “ She’s as 
honest and staunch as the day is long, but she puts 
on such a provoking bluster that it’s hard to see her 
real self. And she goads me on to saying things 
that otherwise I’d never dream of saying. I get 
positively horrid. Oh, dear,” she sighed, as she 
started to “ finish off ” the scarf, “ I know Fanny 
has a lot of fine possibilities in her, and I ought to 
try to bring them out. Being a sister does give one 
such a short perspective, and makes one so hope- 
lessly frank.” 

Isabel had an opportunity of seeing her sister 
from a somewhat different angle a day or two later. 
There was to be an entertainment at Mrs. Hylas’s, 
for the Paquet du Solicit, a society which furnished 
comfort-kits to French soldiers. Fanny was to play. 
The audience, though not especially large, was to be 
made up of University people, and members of vari- 
ous musical organizations in town : it would undoubt- 
edly be critical, whether it wished to or not. 

After dinner that evening, Mrs. Carleton said to 
Isabel, “ I declare, I’m as nervous as if I were going 
to play, myself. And anyway, I have to attend to 
Celia. Will you help Fanny dress? ” 

“ Why, of course, mother,” said Isabel. “ I’m 
glad I put on my dress before dinner, so I don’t 
have much to do.” 


The Canton Flannel Ape 69 

She went up to Fanny’s room, and tapped at the 
half-open door. “ Come in,” called Fanny in a 
troubled voice. Isabel went in. Fanny’s room had 
a distinctiveness about it which was quite different 
from that of Isabel’s girlish room. Fanny’s was 
rather stern in its appearance, with very few orna- 
ments. It had a cool reserved air, as if the owner 
considered mere decoration somewhat beneath her. 
The chief place on the wall was given to a finely 
framed print of Terborch’s The Concert , — a gift 
which had taxed the combined resources of the fam- 
ily at the previous Christmas. 

“ I’ve come to help you, Angel Child,” said Isabel 
as she entered. 

Fanny, in her pink kimono, was braiding her hair 
before the mirror. She turned two very bright eyes 
toward Isabel. Her unsteady hands slipped down 
from the dark strands of hair. “ My fingers are all 
thumbs,” she wailed. u Oh, dear, I’ll never get this 
right.” She was almost in tears. 

“ Here, dear, you sit down, and I’ll do it.” Isa- 
bel brought a chair, and Fanny sat down. Isabel 
took the glossy braids and looped them up skillfully, 
talking, cheer fully while she worked. “We’ll have 
you looking like the Queen in her Garden, in about 
two minutes. There they go! Now the ribbon. 
It’s a lovely color, isn’t it?” She let the rose- 
colored silk slide through her fingers with a caressing 
touch. 

“ Yes. I hunted all over town for just that 
shade,” said Fanny, twisting her head to look at it. 

“Did you?” Isabel was surprised, for Fanny 
had never mentioned the ribbon. “ I’d have been 


70 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

shouting out my affairs to the whole family,” she 
murmured. 

Fanny was stiff and tense, her fingers working 
nervously in her lap. “Oh, dear!” she sighed 
heavily, now and then. 

“ That’s awfully becoming.” Isabel glanced at 
the figure in the glass. The younger girl was almost 
startlingly handsome. The bright gleam in her 
eyes, her flushed cheeks, the arrangement of the 
hair, the rich tint of the ribbon, all combined to be- 
stow upon her an unusual aspect of beauty. Isabel 
was startled to notice how Fanny had developed of 
late. “ She’s at the age when they seem to stand 
still, and then suddenly bound ahead,” she said to 
herself. “ You never quite know where they are.” 
She forgot that she was scarcely out of that phase, 
herself. 

“ It was funny,” said Fanny, trying to speak natu- 
rally, — “ a new girl at school saw me on the street 
with you and Meta, and she asked me afterward 
if Meta weren’t my sister.” 

“ You do look a little alike,” answered Isabel. 
“ I never thought about it before. I suppose it’s 
because you both have such dark hair and eyes.” 
The slight resemblance was an excuse for her star- 
ing at Fanny. “ Now, let’s see, how about your 
slippers,” the older girl went on. 

Fanny stuck out her feet encased in pink bedroom 
slippers. “ My white ones are on the shelf,” she 
said. 

Isabel brought the white kid slippers from the 
closet, and put them on Fanny’s slender silk-stock- 


The Canton Flannel Ape 71 

inged feet. “ I never expected to have a lady’s 
maid,” said Fanny with a grateful smile. 

The lady’s maid had been thinking. “ I’m afraid 
I haven’t done enough for you, dear,” she said with 
a touch of compunction in her voice. “ I’m so 
busy, — or I think I am — and you always seem so 
independent — ” 

“ Well, your affairs are more important than 
mine, I suppose,” answered Fanny humbly. 

Isabel felt a little stab of remorse. In her ab* 
sorption in her own activities, she had not given 
Fanny so much attention as she might have given her. 
u I’ve had more experience, and more chance to see 
things,” she thought, “ and I ought to have been 
giving as much as I could.” 

Fanny slipped off her kimono, and stood in her 
lace-trimmed camisole and white frilled petticoat. 
Then Isabel, carefully, so as not to disarrange the 
braids and the bow, dropped the white muslin dress 
over her sister’s head. All at once, Fanny clutched 
Isabel’s shoulders in her hot twitching hands. “ Oh, 
I’m so scared! I’m so dreadfully scared!” she 
cried, — her piteous face rising rosily from the cloud 
of white muslin. 

Isabel remembered how terrified she herself had 
been, that time when she had to “ say a piece ” at 
graduation; and how it seemed to her, as the fatal 
time approached, that she positively could not go 
through the ordeal. For a while, until her mother 
calmed her, she had suffered torments. “ There, 
there, Angel Child,” she said soothingly, patting 
Fanny’s arm. “ It’ll be all right. You’ll get over 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


72 

this feeling in no time. When you really have the 
thing to do, you’ll be so interested in that, that you’ll 
forget everything else.” 

“ Oh, I hope so. It’s such a lovely piece,” 
quavered Fanny. “ I want to play it as it deserves. 
I couldn’t bear to bungle it. Do you know ” — her 
eyes grew very rapt — “ I feel as if it were some 
beautiful live creature — like a bird, you know — 
and if I didn’t play it well, I might hurt it ! Do you 
see what I mean? ” She looked at Isabel shyly, as 
if she were in fear of being laughed at. Her face 
was sentient to the wonder and delight of the music 
which she longed to express. 

“ Yes, I do. Of course I do.” Isabel dropped 
a kiss on the glowing cheek of her sister. It 
crossed her mind again that in her preoccupation she 
was failing to appreciate a rare and fine personality 
which lived hidden under a show of bluntness and 
indifference. 

The dress was now fastened and coaxed into 
place. The Liberty scarf which Isabel had brought 
to Fanny from London lay in a pink mist across the 
bed. Isabel took it up and shook it out. “ I love 
it — it’s such a heavenly color,” Fanny said as she 
allowed her head to be loosely enveloped in it. 
“ Mother ordered a cab, so I feel very elegant and 
important,” the young musician added, naively en- 
joying the prospect of being wafted to the scene of 
her martyrdom. Her tension was already some- 
what relaxed. 

Presently they were all prepared to go. Mrs. 
Carleton appeared in her blue Georgette crepe gown, 
which made her look more like an older sister of the 


The Canton Flannel Ape 73 

girls than their “ really truly ” mother. She was 
to ride with Fanny, while Isabel and her father were 
to walk. 

When they went downstairs, they found Professor 
Carleton, in his evening clothes, with his light over- 
coat on his arm, standing under the hall light, and 
.reading a copy of Modern Philology . 

“ Poor father! He has to sandwich his studying 
in between the stunts that his family drag him into,’* 
giggled Fanny, almost herself again. 

They all laughed, and Professor Carleton put the 
magazine into the pocket of his overcoat, with a look 
of absent surprise. The cab drove up just then, 
and the two “ aristocrats ” got in and were whirled 
away. 

Isabel and Professor Carleton walked at a lei- 
surely step through the mild spring dusk. There 
was a pungent odor in the air; some of the neighbors 
had been burning heaps of dry leaves that afternoon, 
and the suggestion of smoke still lingered. 

Isabel, holding to her father’s arm, was glad of 
this little time alone with him. “ You seem to get 
busier and busier every day, don’t you, Popsey? ” 
she said, after they had talked about Fanny and the 
Paquet du Soldat. 

Professor Carleton sighed, though cheerfully, as 
if he did not suffer from his burdens. “ It seems so, 
Puss,” he admitted. “ I don’t know that I’ve ever 
had so many things to look after, before; but I don’t 
mind a great deal — no, not a great deal,” he re- 
peated meditatively. 

“Now that old Professor Fenelon is retiring, a 
lot of extra work is thrown on you, isn’t it? ” 


74 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


“ Yes. But I’m glad to be able to do it.” 

Isabel spoke again rather hesitatingly. “ You’ll 
be the new head of the department, won’t you, fa- 
ther?” This was a subject which had not been 
openly discussed at home. 

“ It isn’t decided yet,” answered Professor Carle- 
ton. “ There’s a good deal to be considered. Some 
of the Regents are for hiring an Eastern man — ” 

“ But you’re an Eastern man, Popsey.” 

“ I was once — a long time ago. I’m a Middle 
Western man now.” 

“ And you deserve it, too, father — the place, I 
mean. You’ve worked hard, and pushed the de- 
partment as much as you possibly could, and written 
that stunning book, and done appallingly learned 
articles for the professional periodicals. They 
couldn’t get an Eastern man who could do any better 
than all that. And the students love you, father, 
and that counts for a good deal — a terrific lot, I 
think. It would be a burning shame if you didn’t 
get it.” Isabel spoke with fiery intensity. 

“Well, well, — we’ll see,” parried the professor. 
His daughter’s vehemence made him rather uncom- 
fortable. “ I’m not going to consider myself a vic- 
tim of injustice until I have to.” He laughed re- 
assuringly. “ So don’t get any martyr’s halo ready 
for me, just yet.” 

“ I won’t, father. How sane you are ! ” 

They walked silently, for the remaining block, 
under the great elms which bordered the streets. 

Fanny was the last on the short program. When 
the time came for her to play, she stepped forward 
beside the piano, absolutely cool, her self-conscious- 


The Canton Flannel Ape 

ness entirely gone. She showed only the simplicity 
of the artist who puts his work before himself. 

The notes stirred thrillingly through the room, as 
the violin began to sing in the young girl’s hands. 
Isabel kept thinking of what Fanny had said, “ It’s 
like a beautiful live creature.” When the music 
rose to its best sweetness, the words kept saying 
themselves in Isabel’s mind : 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

A long sigh of real admiration and approval 
escaped from the audience, when the music was 
brought to its harmonious close. The persistent ap- 
plause demanded an encore, and Fanny, all tri- 
umphant ease, gave a lilting little dance, played with 
grace and joy. 

At the end of the program, chattering and laugh- 
ing began, as they do when people have been happily 
attentive. Isabel touched her mother’s arm softly, 
and whispered in her ear, “ Fanny is the flower of 
the family, mother.” 

Mrs. Carleton turned with a perplexed smile, and 
answered, “ I don’t know but what she is, dear.” 
And she added, “ An ordinary girl is problem 
enough, but a girl with a talent and a temperament 
is almost more than one mother can face.” 

“ Too bad we can’t have two mothers,” Isabel 
said, laughing. “ But I’d choose two just exactly 
like you ! ” 


76 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

In spite of their bantering, Mrs. Carleton and 
Isabel were both rather open-eyed at the glimpse 
they had had of a different Fanny from the one they 
had seen every day. But Fanny, a simple school- 
girl again, was joking with Howard Sutro, a high 
school boy, who was bringing her a plate of ice 
cream. The artist had vanished, and the brusque 
mischievous youngster with a healthy appetite and 
an interest in her own kind had reappeared. 


CHAPTER V 

WILLING HANDS 

O NE afternoon, Isabel was in the workroom of 
the Arts Department, putting the last touches 
to a turquoise-and-silver pendant which she had made 
with her own hands. It had been the result of care- 
ful hours, and was the climax of simpler tasks, en- 
thusiastically performed. 

“ Just think! ” she said to Miss Meade, who was 
standing with her hat on, preparatory to leaving the 
building, “ just think, I feel that this is a real ‘ child 
of my brain,’ as they say. I worked out the design, 
and did the whole thing from the beginning. Of 
course, Miss Phelps supervised it, but she made me 
do everything myself.” 

“ It certainly is charming,” said Olivia, coming 
to look over Isabel’s shoulder. “ And you’ve done 
it beautifully.” 

“ It’s simple enough, but I think it’s rather effec- 
tive.” Isabel leaned back to gaze ardently at the 
“ child of her brain.” “ I loved to see it come out 
and take shape and grow beautiful,” she said 
warmly. “ You know what that feeling is.” 

“ I should say I do,” answered Miss Meade. 
“ That’s the way I feel when I’ve been planning a 
room, or even weaving a bit of linen, or dyeing a 
piece of silk. It’s seeing one’s thought becoming 
77 


78 Isabel Carletons Friends 

visible, isn’t it? — thought being transformed into 
things.” 

“ The thought is always first,” replied Isabel medi- 
tatively, “ and the work just embodies it so that 
other people can see it.” 

“ That’s why it’s such a great thing to create even 
a tiny bit of beauty,” added Olivia. “ I suppose 
you’ll wear this pendant with delight, even if you 
do have some pretty things that you got in Europe. 

“I? Oh, no, I never thought of wearing this.” 
Isabel looked up with a happy light in her gray eyes. 
“ I’m going to give it to mother.” 

u To that lovely mother of yours! No wonder 
you want to heap gifts on her. I should, myself.” 

“ We’re going to make it an event,” confided the 
younger girl. “ To-night, it’s to be. That’s why 
I’m hurrying to finish it, and put on the little ring 
to hang it by, and everything. I must get a box for 
it, too,” she added, laying down the tool she had 
been working with. “ I mustn’t forget that.” 

“ Oh,” cried Olivia suddenly, “ I have an idea.” 

“ That won’t do instead of a box,” smiled Isabel. 

“ But it is a box.” Miss Meade ran to her office, 
and came back with a little box in her hand. “ It’s 
Russian,” she said eagerly. “ I got it at a Rus- 
sian shop in Chicago — a nice, odd little piece of 
handiwork. You may have it to put the pendant in, 
if you like.” 

“ How generous of you ! ” cried Isabel. The box 
was really a very delightful article, of a quaint un- 
expectedness. It was of natural creamy white wood, 
with delicate tracings painted in dull colors; and a 
dull-pink pebble was set low in the cover. “ Are 


Willing Hands 79 

you sure you want to give it up ? ” asked the girl 
doubtfully. She could hardly imagine herself, she 
thought, giving up anything so unusual and charm- 
ing. She held the box off and admired it as she 
spoke. 

“ I’d love to give it to your mother,” said Olivia 
simply. “ She’d like it, I’m sure.” 

“ She’ll treasure it like mad. Thank you so 
much. I’ll put a wisp of cotton in it, and display 
the pendant on that.” 

“ That will be fine. Oh, it’s getting late, and I 
have an engagement. I must be going.” Miss 
Meade hurried away, with a backward nod for Isa- 
bel’s reiterated thanks. 

The other girls in the workroom were busy over 
their own creations. Isabel finished the small re- 
maining work on the pendant, and clasped the silver 
ring by which it was to hang. She had already pur- 
chased the thin silver chain to go with it. 

She could hardly stop looking at it long enough to 
put away her tools and get her hat out of her locker. 
She put the box and the pendant in her handbag in 
such a way that she could peep at them now and 
again on her way down town. Her errand was a 
trip to the florist’s for a “ flower or two ”; and then 
she flew for home. Later, there was a good deal 
of low- voiced consultation in her room, with Fanny 
and Celia. All three girls came to dinner in un- 
usual gayety of costume. 

When the dessert was finished, and the family 
were idling over their nuts, Isabel gave a meaning 
look to Fanny, and then said in a solemn tone, 
“ Mother, we’re going to have a little ceremony 


8o 


Isabel Carletori s Friends 


now. You and father are not to budge. All you 
have to do is to be spectators and audience.” 

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Carleton in surprise. 
“You aren’t going to be married, are you? The 
word ceremony is rather appalling.” 

“ You’ll see.” Isabel’s voice was mysterious. 

The girls slipped away, and returned in a few 
minutes in dignified procession. Fanny came first, 
carrying two lighted candles, in the silver candle- 
sticks. Then came Celia, in her white dress, very 
important with a bunch of pink roses and ferns. 
At the last walked Isabel, bearing a silver card tray, 
on which reposed the Russian box. Bobo followed, 
his tail waving proudly, as if in some mysterious way 
he were to be credited with the whole affair. 

Mother stared in amazement. Father, who was 
partly in the secret, laughed quietly. 

Fanny and Celia came forward and stood on either 
side of their mother. Then Isabel, standing beside 
the table, made a very flowery speech, beginning, 
“ Dear and honored Madam and ending, “ Here- 
with we tender you this jewel, as a token of our 
unwavering affection.” She knelt on one knee, and 
presented the box on the tray. 

With a gracious word of thanks, Mrs. Carleton 
took the box, and raised the cover. She gave a de- 
lighted exclamation at the sight of its contents. 
“How lovely! Isabel, did you do this with your 
own hands? ” 

“ Yes, indeed I did, mother. I had such a time 
doing it, but I loved every minute.” Isabel was 
beaming with pleasure in her mother’s joy. 

“ And you wouldn’t let me know just what you 


Willing Hands 81 

were at. It never occurred to me that you might 
be making something for me. I thank you over and 
over, and your fellow-conspirators as well.” She 
got up and kissed each of the girls. Fanny set the 
candles on the table, and Celia thrust the roses into 
her mother’s hands. All five people were talking 
and laughing at once. The pendant was passed 
from hand to hand for admiration, and the odd Rus- 
sian box came in for its share. 

“ Miss Meade sent that to you,” Isabel explained, 
“ and I dare not tell you the splendid things she said 
about you. It would make your ears burn to a 
cinder.” 

“ And then how she’d look! ” interpolated Fanny. 

“ Put on the gew-gaw, mother.” Isabel clasped 
the chain about Mrs. Carleton’s neck. The silver- 
and-blue were shown off very attractively against the 
white lace blouse which the lady was wearing. 
There was another chorus of praise from the family. 

“ I have something to add to the festivity,” said 
Professor Carleton, when the chorus had subsided. 
He took a box of candy from the sideboard drawer, 
and handed it to Mrs. Carleton. When the lid was 
removed, there lay on the top of the chocolates, two 
tickets for the play which was being given at the 
Fuller Opera House that evening, — a well-known 
drama in which a well-known actress was to appear. 
“ For you and Isabel,” said Professor Carleton, as 
the tickets came to light. 

Isabel clapped her hands. She had been longing 
to go, but the tickets were beyond her purse. “ Oh, 
father! How perfectly splendid!” she exclaimed. 
She loved the theater, but did not have many oppor- 


82 


Isabel Carleton s Friends 


tunities to see good plays, partly because there were 
so few in Jefferson since the moving-pictures had 
become so popular; and partly because one’s allow* 
ance simply cannot be stretched to cover everything. 
There was much happy talk about the play while the 
chocolates disappeared. 

“ Isn’t it wonderful to have skillful hands ! ” said 
Mrs. Carleton. She took off the pendant to look at 
it again. “ I’m very proud of you, Little Daugh- 
ter.” She reached over to pat the hand of Isabel, 
who was sitting near her. 

“ I’m so glad I got the inspiration to do this kind 
of work,” the girl responded. “ I can remember 
just how it came to me, out under the apple-trees at 
Tibbies Green, that this handicraft was what I 
wanted more than anything else. I wonder how it 
would have been if Miss Brookert hadn’t invited me 
down to Tibbies Green.” 

“ Oh, I think you would have found out what you 
wanted, in some way or other,” said Mrs. Carleton. 
“ The hands must find their work. And this other 
girl here has skillful fingers, too.” She turned to 
Fanny, who had just helped herself to a huge choco- 
late at the bottom of the box. 

“ I turn ’em to good account,” laughed Fanny, 
holding up the candy, and then taking half of it at 
a bite. 

“Won’t you play for us?” suggested Professor 
Carleton. “ Play that charming thing that you gave 
at the Paquet du SoldatP 

“ If there’s time,” agreed Fanny, disposing of the 
rest of the candy. 

“ Plenty.” Professor Carleton looked at his 


Willing Hands 83 

watch. “ You see, our society ladies are already 
dressed for the evening. Run and get your music- 
box,” — thus did he irreverently designate Fanny’s 
precious violin. 

Fanny came back with her fiddle, and stood up 
beside the table to play. “ It isn’t so nice without 
the piano,” she remarked; and began forthwith. 
Celia snuggled up against her mother, and the vari- 
ous members of the group settled themselves to lis- 
ten. Isabel felt a serene sense of harmony in the 
knowledge that the occasion was of her making. 

The candles flickered on the table. The blue twi- 
light deepened outside. Within, the happy home 
faces around the table, the familiar surroundings, 
the music which the young and nimble fingers called 
forth made up one of the “ dear home doings ” 
which Isabel loved, and which in remembrance she 
would carry with her, far into her later life. 

When Mrs. Carleton and Isabel came home from 
the theater that night, the air was very cold and 
sharp. “ It’s almost as nipping as winter,” said 
the older lady. “ I wish I had worn something 
thicker than this silk coat.” 

The next morning, when Isabel looked out of her 
window, she gave a cry. The world seemed sud- 
denly transformed. A light snow had fallen during 
the night, and where the greenth and freshness of 
spring had lain, now lay a thin white covering of 
winter. 

Isabel dressed and ran down to the back porch. 
The sun was bright, and the sky was a vivid blue; 
clearly, the snow was not to last very long. “ But 


84 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

it’s perfect while it’s here,” cried the girl. It lay in 
light tufts on the maple boughs, where the red buds 
pushed richly through. A blue jay in the poplar 
trees was fluttering his gay wings, and sending down 
showers of flakes. Here and there, through the 
snow, the grass and the purple petals of the iris stood 
out with a fresher tint than before. The lacy intri- 
cacies of the last year’s stems and seed-pods, not yet 
overawed by the newer growth, showed darkly 
against the sparkling background. Isabel could 
scarcely tear herself away to go in to breakfast. 

“ I don’t believe we realize how lovely the snow 
is, until we see it in this fleeting way,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, as she poured the coffee. 

“ Perhaps it’s the fact that we know it’s fleeting 
that makes it look particularly attractive,” com- 
mented the professor. “ This will be gone by 
noon.” 

“ But it’s a sight to remember, isn’t it?” Isabel 
sat gazing out of the window, and forgetting to eat. 
“ I’m going to begin planting to-morrow. There 
can’t be any more cold weather after this. Winter 
has done its worst, and has left this little memento 
before departing for good.” 

“ Professor Lenner says it’s all right to plant 
now,” said Mrs. Carleton. “ I asked him yesterday, 
but I forgot to tell you, Isabel. He’s an expert, I 
think. So now we’ll see what you can do as a real 
live garden-woman.” 

“ I can hardly wait,” responded Isabel. “ I 
know I shall just love it.” 

“ Yes, until you’ve had about three days of it*’* 


Willing Hands 85 

jeered Fanny. “ Then you’ll be calling on the fam- 
ily in relays.” 

“ Not I. I’ll work till I drop in the furrows be- 
fore I ask any odds of so unsympathetic a crowd of 
relatives,” said Isabel, a little piqued by the skep- 
ticism of her sister. 

“We shall see what we shall see,” answered 
Fanny with a grin. “ Go to it, Isabel. Perhaps 
you’ll astonish the natives.” 

All that day the sun was glowing and hot; and 
before noon, as the professor had predicted, the 
snow had run away in gurgling little rivulets which 
slunk down sewers and gutters, and sank hurriedly 
into the earth. 

The next day the warm freshness of the air, and 
the seductive exhalations from the soil convinced the 
young gardener that the time was ripe for planting. 

After classes, Rodney Fox walked down the Hill 
with her, having snatched a respite from his ever- 
lasting mechanical drawing. “ I’m going to plant 
my garden to-day — a part of it at least,” she said, 
as they approached the house. 

“ So this is the great day! I’ll help you, if you 
don’t object to the touch of profane hands on your 
sacred soil.” 

“ Mercy, no! All sorts of assistance thankfully 
accepted. Come on in.” 

In the hall she stopped to say, “Wait a minute 
till I put on my smock. It’s lucky you have on your 
corduroys, for gardening is hard on the clothes.” 

She went upstairs and slipped on a blue linen 
smock over her dress, and bound her hair with a 


86 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


black velvet ribbon. Rodney was waiting for her 
in the hall, and they went through the house to the 
garden. From the back entry, Isabel snatched her 
gloves and tools. 

“ You make a regular business of it, don’t you? ” 
said Rodney. 

“ I mean to,” answered Isabel. “ Mr. Hogan 
has spaded all the plots over there behind the shrub- 
bery. I do detest little round garden beds here and 
there, that cut the turf all up into snips. I’m not 
going to have anything of that sort.” 

“ It’s high time you planted,” said Rodney. “ See 
how forward everything is. Even some of the tulips 
are out.” He caught sight of some yellow blooms 
at the end of the garden. “ And do you notice how 
the rose-leaves have expanded?” 

“Yes, such a nice reddish brown. And see! 
The flowering almonds are always so eager to 
bloom.” 

“ They don’t seem to care how cold it is. Nice 
color, aren’t they? ” 

“ Look, Rod.” Isabel fished up some packets 
from the deep pocket of her smock. “ Here are 
the seeds. Don’t you love these fascinating paper 
envelopes, with their rich promises on the front? ” 

Rodney stared at the gorgeous one which she 
handed him. “ Jack’s beanstalk was a dwarf va- 
riety compared to this,” he said quizzically. 

“ I love ’em,” rejoined Isabel. “ They show so 
much optimism and imagination.” 

“ They show all of that,” remarked the young 
man drily; “not to mention persuasion and gulli- 
bility and delusion.” 


Willing Hands 87 

“ Well, I’m willing to accept a little delusion along 
with my optimism, if necessary. Now, look at these 
scrumptious marigolds. Aren’t they fit for a 
Queen’s Garden? They look as big as nice golden 
whisk brooms.” She showed him the gay packet. 

“ Probably grow to be six inches high,” prophesied 
Rodney; “ and the blossoms may be visible through 
a high-powered microscope.” 

“ You’re a mean thing. Then look at these snap- 
dragons, — sprays as long as your arm, and flowers 
like South American orchids.” 

Rodney cast a speculative look at the likeness of 
the snap-dragons. “ Might be seen with the naked 
eye,” he conceded. “ Well, tell me where all these 
modern wonders are going, and I’ll plant ’em deep 
in earth, whence they may spring again.” 

“ I want to plant, too. I’m not a fragile flower,” 
protested Isabel. 

“ Nobody’s objecting. Plant all you like,” said 
Rodney. “ We’ll work together, and all will soon 
be over.” 

They stood silent for a minute, looking about the 
spaded space. The whirr of a passing automobile 
purred from the street, calls of playing children 
came from adjacent yards, and the twitter of birds 
sounded in the poplars. 

“ How you love these things — the color, and all 
that,” said Rodney at last. 

u I do. They give me thrills — feelings and 
thoughts that I can’t tell any one.” Isabel spoke 
with repressed fervor. 

“ I often wish that I could keep up with you,” said 
the young man rather wistfully. “ I think I’m with 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


you, and then all at once you’re off on Pegasus (isn’t 
that the name of the broncho with the bi-plane at- 
tachment?) and I’m left staring, with my big feet on 
the ground.” 

“ Then you can catch Pegasus by the tail and haul 
him back, before he has carried me very far,” 
laughed the girl. “ I don’t want to get too high 
among the clouds.” 

“ Pegasus is an elusive beast. I only hope he 
won’t become a domestic animal,” muttered Rodney. 
“ Do you want these whisk-brooms planted here, or 
over there along the wall?” he went on briskly. 

“ Not there, I think. I’m going to put the nas- 
turtiums there, and have a riot of color among the 
leaves.” 

“ I didn’t know where the nasturtiums were going 
to riot,” — Rodney was pretending to grumble. 
“ Where are the marigolds going to ramp, then? ” 

“ Don’t you think this would be a good place? ” 
The garden-woman indicated a space along the 
walks. “ The tulips will be gone, of course, long 
before the mary-golds come on.” 

“ Here goes, then.” There was a silence while 
they dug little holes in the brown earth and dropped 
in the tiny seeds. Isabel enjoyed the company of 
Rodney, because she did not feel that she had to 
“ gabble ” all the time, and that he had to be con- 
tinually entertained. “ There’s something marvel- 
ous about the soil,” Rodney mused, after a few min- 
utes of planting. His quizzical air was gone. “ It’s 
so — so quiescent, I think the word is — so calm 
and patient, you know. It waits year after year, 
perhaps centuries, for the seed to be brought; and 


Willing Hands 89 

then, when it does come, the soil is ready with all 
its forces to bring the seed to growth.” 

“ Yes,” assented Isabel. “ It’s ready to produce 
something good if it’s given a chance.” 

There was a silence again. Isabel was on her 
knees, on the grassy edge of the plot which they 
were planting. “ When I’m out here, you know, I 
think of Molly; I think of life, — in the soil, in the 
seeds and plants and buds — and Molly seems to me 
more and more to be all life. I don’t know whether 
you see what I mean — ” 

“ I think I do,” said Rodney gravely, as he patted 
the ground over the seeds he had put in. 

“ I keep thinking of the verse in the Bible, where 
it says, ‘ That they might have life . . . and have it 
more abundantly.’ ” 

“ She has it,” said the boy simply. 

“ And I have, too. I think, if you know more 
about things, and understand more, and — and love 
more, then you do have life more abundantly. 
Don’t you think so? ” Isabel spoke in a low voice, 
as if she scarcely dared to tell her inner thoughts. 

“ I surely do.” 

They rose from their knees, Isabel with a little 
gasp over aching muscles. There was a warm, 
kindly sympathy between the two young people that 
made them very happy, but a trifle shy. 

“Now, what do we plant next?” Rodney was 
using a studiously commonplace tone. 

“ The mignonette. It’s nice to put in with other 
things, when one makes a bouquet. And, oh, yes ! 
The bluebells ought to find a place. I’m deter- 
mined to have bluebells.” 


9 o 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


“ Next year, if all this talk about food shortage 
keeps on, you’ll be planting cabbages instead of blue- 
bells, and turnips instead of mignonette,” reflected 
Rodney. 

“ Yes.” Isabel was downcast for the moment. 
“There’s no telling what next year will bring. 
That’s why, somehow, I feel that this one ought to 
be as happy — as flowery — as it can. When the 
time comes, we’ll eat our turnips, no matter how un- 
palatable they may be.” 

Rodney knew that she meant something else be- 
sides turnips, and he sympathized with her desire to 
grasp the present moment, and make it yield all the 
joy it had to give. He said as much, in the look 
he gave her. 

His mind went to France, where the great world- 
battle was being fought. “ Herb doesn’t say any- 
thing about coming back,” he said, digging the toe 
of his shoe into the loosened soil. “ But he tells me 
to stick hard to my engineering, and get all the prac- 
tical experience I can. He says that young Ameri- 
can engineers will be in great demand — over there 
— before long.” 

Isabel threw him a startled glance, and turned 
back to her planting, without a word. And then 
they began to talk about Meta, and a prospective 
picnic, and school affairs of various kinds. They 
worked on, until the air grew cooler, and the sun 
hung low. 

“ Better stop now,” said Rodney decisively. 
“ It’s hard work, and you aren’t used to it.” 

Isabel sighed wearily, and put her hand to her 


Willing Hands 91 

back. “ It is hard on any one who isn’t trained to 
this particular form of exercise.” 

“ I suppose I’d better trot along,” Rodney con- 
tinued. “ Mother’s having guests for dinner, and 
she told me in plain words that I’d have to make 
myself more than usually presentable. Mothers 
have a way of wanting their only children to look 
like Fifth Avenue swells.” 

u Yes. I tell mother that she’s always expecting 
her Ugly Ducklings to look like swans.” Isabel 
smiled indulgently. 

“ Well, if no one ever had any uglier ducklings 
than your mother, the world wouldn’t be a bad place 
to live in.” Rodney was wiping his forehead with a 
handkerchief which gave signs of the afternoon’s 
hard usage. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” replied Isabel, reddening. 

“ I like the looks of ’em, anyway,” said Rodney. 

“ Your own mother’s duckling isn’t so bad,” ven- 
tured Isabel teasingly. 

“ Say, we’re rather previous, aren’t we, — throw- 
ing bouquets when the garden is just planted? ” 

Isabel was willing to change the subject. “ I want 
a bouquet to take into the house,” she said. “ Don’t 
you want to cut me some of those irises? I’m too 
tired to bend over another bit.” 

“ Surely.” Rodney took out his knife, and cut a 
half-dozen of the low-growing purple irises near at 
hand. 

“ They’ll be exquisite in the beautiful orange-col- 
ored vase that you gave me,” glowed the girl as 
she took the flowers. 


92 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


Rodney’s eyes showed his pleasure. “ Glad you 
like it,” was all he said. Then he took his coat 
from a bench; he had abandoned it in the ardor of 
his labors. “ I must be going,” he said. “ I won’t 
tramp through the house with my dirty shoes. 
Good-by. I’ve had a fine time, Isabel.” 

“ Thank you so much for helping me, Rod.” 

“ Don’t mention it. I’ll help you some more. I 
like it.” 

“ Good-by.” 

After Rodney had gone, Isabel went into the 
house. Tired and grimy as she was, she stopped to 
fill the beloved vase with water, and put into it the 
iris blossoms and the graceful ribbon-like leaves. 
The color delighted her. She ran her fingers lov- 
ingly over the flowers and the clear outline of the 
jar. “ That they might have life more abundantly,” 
she murmured, as she turned to go upstairs. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE FAIR MELISSY 

' I A HE time of Olga’s wedding approached. The 
dress was bought, and a seamstress came in to 
make it. Olga, like one in a dream, went vaguely 
about her work, and in the intervals tried on dress, 
slippers, and accessories. Household affairs suf- 
fered; and Mrs. Carleton, with a hunted look, 
seemed always rushing about with a duster in her 
hand, or a belated order for the grocer. It was 
with something of relief that she agreed that Olga 
was to go home to Mrs. Jensen’s a week before the 
wedding. 

On the afternoon of Olga’s departure, Melissy 
was to arrive. Mrs. Stuart had sent a letter ar- 
ranging matters. Isabel was reading a letter in the 
hall, just before starting for her class, when Mrs. 
Carleton came to the door to say doubtfully, “ My 
dear, I think it falls to you to go and meet Melissy. 
I don’t like to have the poor girl arrive without any 
one at the station.” 

Isabel folded the letter and put it into the envel- 
ope. “ All right, mother,” she answered promptly. 
u I think I can manage it by close calculation. I 
was going to watch Meta rehearse. I did really 
want to see that.” 

“ Well, the train gets in at five-twenty. I think 
you can work it out, can’t you? I have to go to 
93 


94 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

Mrs. Rayne’s tea, and then come home and get the 
dinner started.” 

“ Yes, yes. I’ll be there with the bells on, as Rod 
says,” responded Isabel gayly. 

Mrs. Carleton frowned. “ You know I don’t 
like slang, child,” she said more fretfully than was 
her wont. 

“ I know you don’t, mother. But you wouldn’t 
want me to be a plaster-of-Paris girl, would you, 
without any imperfections whatever? I’ll bet you’d 
get terribly tired of me, if I never did a thing you 
didn’t like.” Isabel came over and patted her 
mother’s cheek appealingly. 

The lady’s face cleared. “ Of course I should, 
dear. I like you to do things that I don’t like.” 

“ So that you can correct me, eh? Well, there’s 
no danger that I shan’t give you enough correcting 
to do. But listen a minute.” Mrs. Carleton was 
poised for a flight to the dining-room, where the table 
was still standing with the remnants of luncheon. 
“ I want to tell you that I have a letter from Madame 
Doret.” 

Mrs. Carleton had heard so much about the 
Franco-Hindoo family whom Isabel had known in 
London, that she almost felt that she knew them 
herself. “What does Madame say?” she asked, 
restraining herself from dashing away to the tasks 
which awaited her. “ Does she write in English? ” 

“ No, in French. She writes with a good deal of 
charm, I think. They are still in London. Mon- 
sieur is almost entirely recovered from his illness, 
but his arm is stiff yet. He expects to be formally 


95 


The Fair Melissy 

discharged from the army very soon, now; and as 
soon as they can arrange things and get passage, 
they are going back to Singapore.” 

“ They haven’t had a very cheerful time in Eng- 
land.” 

“ No, not so very. But Madame Doret is so de- 
lighted at Monsieur’s having escaped alive that she 
can’t think of anything else.” 

“ It is a comfort. I don’t see how the wives and 
mothers endure things over there.” Mrs. Carleton 
choked as she spoke. 

“Nor I, mother!” Isabel caught her breath. 
What if some one she cared for very much had to 
face the horrors and dangers of battle? She 
thought of Edwin Shelburne, whom she had met in 
England, and whom she had liked; and then she 
thought of some one else. “ I could never bear it,” 
she said sharply. 

“ How are the Lion and the Angel? ” asked Mrs. 
Carleton. 

“ Getting along finely.” Isabel was glad to go 
back to the details of the letter. “ They’ve learned 
very fast from the Belgian governess, and she’s no 
end good to them — takes them around and shows 
them things, and keeps them amused and interested. 
Madame says that they ask after Mademoiselle Isa- 
bel ever so often.” Isabel had been kind to the 
bewildered youngsters, when their father had been 
called away to war. 

“ It was nice that you could do something for the 
little creatures.” 

“I didn’t do much. Poor little souls! I think 


96 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

they’ll be happier when they get back to the tropics. 
They seemed like transplanted herbs. I hope that 
the world will be good to them as they grow up.” 

“ Those Eurasians don’t find the world any too 
generous. Neither race seems to feel friendly to- 
ward them.” 

“ It’s terribly unjust. I’m glad that the Dorets 
have money, anyway, and can make themselves com- 
fortable.” Isabel folded the letter thoughtfully. 
“ Madame was such a dear, helpless, hopeless little 
piece of humanity.” 

“Who?” cried Fanny, coming into the hall on 
her way upstairs. “ Who’s helpless and hopeless? ” 

“ Why, we were just speaking of Madame Doret, 
in England,” explained Mrs. Carleton. “ Isabel 
has a letter from her. She seemed to find the world 
a very trying place.” 

“Who?” shouted Celia, skipping into the circle 
with Bobo jolting on her shoulder. “ Who? ” 

“Goodness me!” cried Isabel, laughing with 
vexation. “ Can’t we have a word together? Any 
one would think, to hear all these whoo-whoo’s, that 
this was the Owl Family, instead of the Carletons.” 

“Whoo-whoo!” shouted Celia, overjoyed with 
the suggestion. “ Oh, I’d rather be an Owl than 
a Carleton, any day.” 

As she went out, Isabel heard Fanny and Celia 
echoing “ Whoo-whoo ! ” to each other all the way 
upstairs. She opened the door again to call to her 
mother, “ I’ll bring the fair Melissy home to you as 
carefully as if she were the Empress of China, and 
made of china at that.” 

“ I couldn’t ask more of you,” called Mrs. Carle- 


The Fair Me Ussy 9 7 

ton in reply. She had already begun to pick up the 
luncheon dishes. 

As Isabel went on her way to the University, her 
mind reverted to the incidents of her Wonder-year 
in Europe, and particularly those of the last few 
weeks in London. “ It doesn’t seem as if I were 
the same person,” she sighed regretfully. Life in 
college seemed very tame beside the freer life among 
stimulating events abroad. 

After her classes were over, she ran upstairs in 
Main Hall, to the rooms of the Public Speaking De- 
partment, which were on the top floor. A rehearsal 
of the Red Domino play was about to begin. The 
actors were scattered about the large recitation room, 
conversing volubly with one another. 

Meta Houston was having a discussion with Wil- 
fred Collins, the leading man. He was a tall slen- 
der youth, with regular features and cool blue eyes. 
Meta was saying, “ I think Althea ought to step 
backward a little, and stare, and then cover her face 
with her hands — like this.” She went through the 
motions which she had indicated. 

“ No, no, I don’t think that’s the thing at all,” 
Collins was saying irritably. “Now, look here: I 
go through this piece of business about the letter, you 
know; I read it through slowly, and then crumple it 
up in my hand, and then look up, and say, ‘ Did you 
write this, Althea ? ’ And then you — ” 

<r Oh, I beg your pardon, — that’s not the right 
way to say it,” interrupted Meta. “ It isn’t ‘ Did 
you write this, Althea? ’ It’s, ‘ Did you write this, 
Althea?’ — This! as if you couldn’t believe your 
eyes. And then — ” 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


98 


“ I’m sure I’m right about it,” insisted Collins 
immovably. “ I’ve tried it a dozen ways, and this 
is the right one.” 

“ What do you think, Isabel? ” Meta turned to 
her friend, who was listening with absorbed atten- 
tion. 

“ Dear me, it all sounds perfectly grand to me,” 
exclaimed Isabel. “ When I hear it one way, it 
seems all right, and when I hear it the other, that 
seems just as it should be, too.” 

“ That’s not much help,” complained Meta. 

u We don’t need help on this. I’m sure I have 
the right way,” said Collins with a cold look at the 
outsider. 

“ Here comes Miss Henderson,” said Meta with 
relief. “ We’ll have to take her decision when we 
come to the place in the play.” A tall dark woman, 
the head of the Public Speaking Department, was ap- 
proaching. She was very straightforward and un- 
sentimental in her appearance. 

“ I know my way is right,” muttered Collins. 

“ Come, come, let’s get right at our work,” said 
Miss Henderson, in a businesslike way. The actors 
took their places at the end of the room, and the 
rehearsal began. It would go swimmingly for a 
few minutes, and then Miss Henderson would cry 
out sharply, “ Oh, that’s wrong! that’s awful. Try 
that again, and stand further back, Mr. Bloch. 
Miss Sellers, haven’t you any voice at all? You 
won’t be heard beyond the footlights. And don’t 
squeak, just because you’re supposed to be angry. 
Now ! once more ! Put some life into it. This isn’t 
a sanitarium.” 


The Fair Melissy 99 

Then there would be a few minutes more of prac- 
ticing. 

“ Oh, I never get that right,” complained Miss 
Sellers in the midst of a speech. “ How do you 
think I ought to say that, Miss Henderson?” 

“ If you’d remember that youWe not saying it, but 
the character you’re playing, you’d get along better. 
Say it as you think she would say it,” Miss Hender- 
son answered crisply. “ Now, Miss Houston, here’s 
your cue.” 

Meta spoke a few lines fluently. 

“That’s good — very good.” The teacher 
nodded. “ Oh, now you’re spoiling it. Do that 
over.” 

And so they would go on, sometimes doing the 
same sentence twenty times, and sometimes gliding on 
for five minutes without a break. To Isabel it was 
fascinating, — this process of seeing something grow. 
She watched Meta, too, feeling the vitality of the 
girl, the vividness, the earnestness, the spirit, the 
passion for hard labor, and then the quick resilience 
of her nature. Isabel was thinking how, last fall, 
she had looked askance at Meta, because she did not 
have the rather colorless conventionality of the other 
girls. The Western girl had seemed to Isabel too 
exuberant and untamed, — a kind of barbaric prin- 
cess who took her own whims too much for guides in 
her association with other people. 

“ She’s changed,” said Isabel to herself. “ She’s 
subdued, but she has never lost one bit of the thing 
that made her an individual. That’s what mother 
— and Cousin Eunice, when she was here — could 
do for her. They knew how to bring out the best; 


ioo Isabel Carletori s Friends 

and without seeming to try, they just let the unde- 
sirable elements fade away. That’s what skill and 
love and kindness can do.” And then she thought, 
“ It was Rod who got me started at liking her, and 
who made the chance for her to have mother’s help.” 

She watched the clock, and at the last moment 
she dared, she slipped away and caught a car to the 
station. She had not stood many minutes on the 
platform before the train from Dalton came puffing 
in. 

The passengers began getting off the train, and 
Isabel watched them one by one. Toward the last, 
she spied the angular figure of Melissy. Isabel had 
never seen her in her coat and hat, but always in 
her print dresses and aprons. Melissy wore a 
shabby gray suit, with a little jacket, and a round 
felt hat with a limp feather at the side. She carried 
a canvas “ telescope,” and an umbrella. 

Isabel ran up and greeted her cordially. “ Oh, 
here you are, Melissy,” she cried. “ I’m awfully 
glad you’ve come.” 

Melissy looked relieved. “ I’m glad to get 
here,” she answered, in her uncompromising voice. 
“ I was kind-a hoping some one’d be at the train. 
I says to myself, ‘ Now, it would be just like Miss 
Isabel or Miss Fanny to come down and give me a 
boost.’ ” 

“ We thought you’d like some one to meet you. 
Did you bring a trunk? ” 

“ No, I just checked a big suit-case. I’ve got the 
check in my pocket-book.” Melissy carefully set 
down the telescope, and fumbled for the piece of 
pasteboard. 


The Fair Melissy ioi 

Isabel took it, and quickly arranged with a bag- 
gage-man to bring up the suit-case. “ Come on, Me- 
lissy. We’ll go up in a car,” she called, beckoning. 

They walked along together. Melissy turned to 
look after a particularly gaudy piece of millinery. 
“ Every one has nice new hats on, and I feel like a 
gawk,” she said nervously. “ Your grandmother 
said she thought it’d be kind-a too bad to get a hat 
in Dalton, when it would be so much more fun get- 
ting it in Jefferson. I imagined she was right, but I 
wish, now, that I’d have stodged up something with 
a flower on it, so’s not to look like a clown in my 
old winter hat.” 

“ Now, don’t you worry, Melissy,” Isabel con- 
soled her; “ nobody’ll notice, just on the way up to 
the house, and as soon as you like, you can get a new 
hat. I’ll go with you, and help you pick it out, if 
you want me to.” 

“ Oh, would you ? I never dreamt you’d do that,” 
cried Melissy. “ Your grandmother says you have 
such a good time, and go around so much, — and 
work at your studies, too.” The tone in which the 
country girl spoke gave Isabel a twist at the heart. 
The eagerness and the timidity in Melissy’s eyes 
were very appealing to the college girl, whose life 
had been so fortunate and so sheltered. 

“ I’ll find time for the hat. Never fear,” said 
Isabel gayly. 

“ If I could get something like the hat with the 
blue flowers that you had on the first time I saw 
you, I’d be awful pleased. I ain’t never forgot it,” 
Melissy went on, growing more confidential. 

“ It was rather a pretty one,” answered Isabel. 


102 Isabel Garletori s Friends 

“ Maybe we can discover something of the same 
sort. We stand here to wait for the State Street 
car. Now, notice whether a car has Winger Park 
or South Jefferson on it. A Winger Park car, or a 
University Heights will do for us — they both go up 
State Street — but a South Jefferson car is always 
wrong.” She explained the car system to Melissy, 
with great care and minuteness. “ When you’re out 
alone, you won’t have any trouble in getting around,” 
she remarked. 

The car came whizzing along, and they got on. 
During the short trip, Melissy looked eagerly out of 
the window. “My! Is that the State House?” 
she said when they came to the Capitol Building. 
“ It wasn’t finished when I was here, four years ago. 
It’s awful big and white. I didn’t suppose there 
ever was such a big building.” 

“ It’s beautiful, isn’t it? ” Isabel replied. “ See! 
It’s pink at the top, now that the sun is getting low, 
and the rest of it is all in blue shadow.” 

“ It’s terrible pretty,” exclaimed Melissy. “ I 
just want to look and look.” 

“ That’s the way I feel when I’m in a new place,” 
said Isabel. “ I like to stare to my heart’s con- 
tent. You must do it, too, if you feel like it.” 

Several people whom Isabel knew got on the car, 
and she nodded to them. Melissy began to mourn 
again. “ I don’t know what your friends’ll think,” 
she whispered, — “ me in this prune of a hat.” 

Isabel could not help smiling at the other girl’s 
concern. “ They won’t mind, I’m sure,” she said to 
Melissy. 

In a few minutes they got off the car, and walked 


103 


The Fair Melissy 

the short block to the house. “ It’s a nice house.” 
Melissy looked appraisingly at it. “ It’s not so big 
as your grandmother’s, but the vine is pretty and 
that maple at the side.” 

“ We have more yard at the back than at the 
front,” Isabel explained. 

Mrs. Carleton, with a long apron on, met them 
in the hall. “ I’m glad to see you, Melissy,” she 
said in her friendly way. “ Miss Isabel will show 
you where your room is. Perhaps you will want to 
rest, after your trip.” 

“ Land, no, Mrs. Carleton,” protested Melissy. 
“ I’ll be down in no time, and get the dinner on the 
table. I’ll just lay off my hat and wash my hands.” 

“ In no time ” she was down, in a white apron, 
with her hair neatly smoothed. “ I’ll be a mite 
awkward, I expect,” she said modestly, “ but soon’s 
I get the hang of things, I’ll be smart as a cricket.” 

“ We try to keep things simple,” said Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ It won’t take you long to learn.” 

Melissy was soon deep in the mysteries of dinner, 
and Mrs. Carleton was explaining about the re- 
frigerator and the salt-box and the potato-masher, 
when Celia rushed in. “Well, here’s my girl!” 
cried Melissy, who was about to drain the potatoes. 
She put the kettle on the stove, and reached out her 
hands to Celia. The little girl took the maid’s work- 
hardened hands in hers, and spun her around and 
around. 

“Isn’t it gr-and to have Melissy here!” she 
cried. 

Melissy gave the child a hug. “ I declare, I’ve 
been hankering to see you,” she said earnestly. 


104 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“ I’m glad you’ve come to stay with us,” repeated 
Celia. 

“ Oh, ho! Are you, now? ” said Melissy, going 
back to the potatoes. 

“ Yes. I liked Olga, but I like you in a different 
way. You talk differently, too, Melissy.” 

“ Land o’ Goshen! I never thought about it, but 
I don’t know as it’s any wonder that I don’t talk 
like a Swede. I’m an old-fashioned American, 
tongue and all.” 

“ It isn’t a bad thing to be,” commented Mrs. 
Carleton. 

“ I guess it isn’t. Now, lady, if you’ll just show 
me about one or two things more, I believe I can 
get along here, just as clever as a kitten. You can 
go and sit down.” 

Mrs. Carleton took off her apron with a sigh of 
relief. “ I’d be glad to,” she said. “ I’m tired, 
after a very busy day.” 

At dinner, while Melissy was in the kitchen, Pro- 
fessor Carleton said as if it had just occurred to 
him, “ Melissy has a lot of personality, hasn’t 
she?” 

“ Yes, she has,” answered his wife, “ but in spite 
of her independence she is rather pathetic to me. I 
want you girls to be especially nice to her,” she 
added, as she turned to her daughters. “ Grand- 
mother has treated her like one of the family, and 
we mustn’t hurt her feelings.” 

“ Mother, aren’t we always nice to the people who 
help us here in the house? ” asked Isabel in a pro- 
testing tone. 

“ Indeed you are. But — ” 


The Fair Melissy 105 

“ She wants us to treat Melissy as we’d like to be 
treated if we had to work for other people in the 
same way. Isn’t that it, mother?” said Fanny 
soberly. 

“ Yes, I think it is.” 

“ I’ll be just as good to her as if she was Isabel,” 
piped Celia. But just then Melissy entered with the 
dessert, and the conversation was closed. 

The household was soon running smoothly again, 
under the relentless management of Melissy. She 
was fiercely energetic and painfully conscientious in 
the smallest details of the domestic affairs. Where 
Olga had carried out orders with calm and steadfast 
obedience, Melissy always thought everything out 
beforehand and presented it complete to her some- 
what dazed mistress. 

She would come to Mrs. Carleton with a bit of 
paper in her fingers, which she consulted from time 
to time. “ I thought you’d like to have the pantry 
shelves cleaned to-morrow,” she would say. “ And 
then the next day I can wash and iron the curtains 
in the kitchen and pantry and hall and bathroom, and 
put ’em up again. And while I’m at the shelves, I 
might as well give a good polish to the silver and 
glassware, and put everything back in good shape. 
Does this idee suit you, Mrs. Carleton? Of course, 
if it don’t—” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, that’s fine,” the relieved house- 
keeper would exclaim. “ And by the way, I haven’t 
thought what to have for dinner to-night. Have 
you? ” 

“ I made out a list here, of what we might have. 
We’ve got everything in the house for it except the 


106 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

fish,” Melissy would explain modestly. “ I cooked 
some prunes, and I thought I’d make a nice prune 
whip for des'-ert. I’ll run out now and get the fish 
if you want me to.” 

“ I feel as if I were a guest in my own house,” 
Mrs. Carleton confided to Isabel. “ Melissy does 
dearly love to run things. That’s the American of 
it, I believe.” 

“ It’s a joy, isn’t it, Mumsey? ” 

“ It’s almost like taking a vacation.” Mrs. Carle- 
ton sighed. Nobody but Isabel knew how tired the 
housemother could get of the constant succession of 
dinners that vanished with “ one snap and a lick of 
the chops of curtains that always had to be taken 
down or put up ; of clothes to be put away securely 
from the consuming appetite of the moth; of table- 
cloths to be mended, silver to be polished, shelves 
to be straightened, rugs to be cleaned, bedding to be 
renewed. u Melissy can keep me out of the asylum 
if anybody can,” murmured the harassed lady; and 
her lips really trembled as she spoke. 

“ Poor mother. You always take things so philo- 
sophically that we don’t realize what a lot we expect 
of you.” Isabel gave her mother a hug. “ Let’s 
all be thankful that you’re to be tyrannized over 
by Melissy for a while at least.” 

Isabel snatched time one afternoon to go with 
Melissy to get a hat, and they achieved a smart little 
cream-colored straw trimmed with blue corn-flowers 
which exactly satisfied the yearnings of Melissy’s 
heart. “ And so cheap, too,” Isabel exulted, while 
Melissy showed off the hat to Mrs. Carleton. “ We 
picked out the shape among some untrimmed hats, 


The Fair Melissy 


107 


and then rummaged till we found the corn-flowers; 
she felt as if she just couldn’t live unless she had 
corn-flowers, didn’t you, Melissy? And the woman 
only charged a quarter for sewing the flowers on, 
and putting on that black velvet ribbon that I’d 
brought along — and everything was perfect.” 
Mrs. Carleton, beholding the happy face beneath the 
hat, agreed that it was. “ And I’m going to show 
Melissy how to do her hair so that it won’t be quite 
so tight over her ears — so it’ll come out under the 
hat a little more — ” 

Already Melissy’s face seemed less thin and sharp, 
and her expression less hungry for happiness. 

One noon, that same week, George Burnham tele- 
phoned that he and his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Keat- 
ing, wished to take Isabel and Meta for an automo- 
bile ride out to Middleton, where they would have 
supper. Plans were hastily rearranged, and Isabel 
went, rejoicing in the weather and the company. 
She was getting so that she liked George Burnham 
more and more. He had an easy, satirical way of 
speaking which made one think that he was flippant 
and indifferent; but Isabel had before this decided 
that he was really a very earnest and solid-minded 
person. 

She sat next to him at supper, and she gained a 
little glimpse of his inner thoughts, which he usually 
kept carefully concealed. He had been telling her 
a most amusing incident which had occurred in the 
Public Works office, concerning a bridge and a Nor- 
wegian farmer. And then he said abruptly, “ I’m 
tired of this indoor work. I ought never to have 
taken the position. What I want is practice.” 


108 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ But why did you take it, then? You’ve had it 
ever since you left college, haven’t you? ” 

“ Yes ; two years,” answered Burnham. “ I was 
offered the job in the office just before I left the 
Engineering School. I wanted to go out and get 
some practical work, no matter whether I earned 
anything or not; but my father had got into a hole, 
financially, and I had to help him out. I had to 
take the first thing that came to hand that had a 
steady salary attached to it. I simply had to send 
home money to keep the pot boiling, as it were. But 
now father’s getting on his feet again, and I’m 
going to be freer.” 

Isabel wondered what he meant to do with his 
freedom, but he answered the question for her. u I 
want to get rough practical experience as soon as I 
can. It’s going to be needed.” 

Isabel remembered what Rodney had said the 
other day in the garden, — “Young American engi- 
neers will be in great demand — over there — be- 
fore long.” She answered Burnham vaguely, but 
she was very busy thinking, all the way back in the 
dusk and moonlight. 

During the week, other events rushed quickly by, 
and the day came for Olga’s wedding. Fanny and 
Celia went, and came home full of talk about it. It 
was the first wedding which Celia, at least, had seen. 

“ Olga looked perfectly fine,” said Fanny. “ She 
was a lot prettier than I’ve ever seen her look be- 
fore.” 

“ Her hair was all crimpy,” interrupted Celia, 
“ and it looked like gold, and then the veil was just 
like a nice white cloud — ” 


The Fair Melissy 


109 

“ And her dress was awfully becoming,” broke in 
Fanny. “ She didn’t look clumsy a bit in it — ” 

“ And they stood in front of a lot of green 
branches and things — ” 

“ Olga said she wanted it as much like an outdoor 
wedding in Sweden as it could be — ” 

“ Only her clothes were different. She loved the 
white dress, she said.” 

“ And a girl wore a lot of funny clothes, just like 
those they wear in the mountains in Sweden — ” 

“ And an old man played a fiddle.” Celia’s face 
was alight with the remembrance. 

“ Queer, sad humming tunes,” supplemented 
Fanny. “ He said he’d teach me to play ’em. 
There was a dance that he’d learned years and years 
ago, in Norway — ” 

“ He was an awful nice old man,” explained Celia. 
“ He held me on his lap, and said funny things to 
me in Norwegian.” 

“ And they had gorgeous things to eat — all 
crumbly and rich and delicious — ” 

“ Did Mr. Evestad figure in the affair at all?” 
asked Isabel, laughing. “ The bridegroom ought 
to count for something at a wedding — but he never 
seems to.” 

“ Oh, he was all right,” Fanny replied. “ He 
looked terribly stiff and scared, and got as red as a 
beet when he had to make the answers. Olga didn’t 
get red — not she. She was as cool as a cucumber.” 

“ Cucumbers and beets — it was almost a garden 
party,” muttered Isabel frivolously. 

But Fanny was rattling on. “ And would you be- 
lieve it, he and Olga did a dance in the middle of 


iio Isabel Carleton s Friends 

the floor, and the old man played the fiddle, and it 
was awfully nice — not funny a bit. They went to- 
ward each other, and then back, and they kept time 
perfectly, with beautiful odd steps. Let’s show 
them, Celia.” Fanny hummed, and she and Celia 
did an impromptu dance on the sitting-room rug, — 
Fanny sure and graceful, Celia bewildered but eager 
to do her part. The older girl kept on humming 
after the dance had faded away. “ That’s the 
dance that the old man is going to teach me,” she 
went on. “ It’s frightfully old. He said he 
learned it from his grandfather, and it came down 
ages ago from a troll who was a fiddler, away off 
in a glen somewhere — it’s a queer story.” 

“ And so Olga is safely married,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, with a sympathetic smile for the troll in 
the glen. “ I hope the dear creature will be happy.” 

“ She deserves to be,” said Isabel. 

“ Mrs. Jensen cried,” reported Celia. “ I don’t 
see why.” 

“ I guess she was thinking of their old home in 
Sweden,” said Fanny slowly. “ You know, their 
father and mother aren’t living any more. It must 
be hard, to leave your own father and mother, and 
come so far away, and then have them — ” Her 
voice failed. She went and laid her head on her 
mother’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Carleton held Fanny close. “ Well, even 
if Olga is gone, we have Melissy,” she said cheer- 
fully. 


CHAPTER VII 


FRILLY THINGS 

N OWADAYS Meta was rehearsing nearly 
every day. It was something of a strain, in 
view of the fact that studying had to be done, just 
the same, and that there were increasing temptations 
to spend the evenings in having a good time. One 
afternoon early in May, Isabel climbed the stairs 
to the Public Speaking Department, and waited till 
Meta came out of the room where the rehearsals 
were held. 

There was an unsual droop in the spirits of the 
amateur actress. She was flushed and tired, and 
there were dark circles under her eyes. “ I’m ready 
to drop,” she said wearily. “ Let’s go outside and 
sit for a little while.” 

They ran downstairs, and out into the soft after- 
noon air. The trees on the campus were in full leaf 
now, and their varied greens were flecked by the 
white of dogwood and wild plum blossoms. 

“ Come on, let’s sit in the Spoon Holder,” said 
Isabel. 

They made their way through the grass, to the 
marble bench, popularly called the Spoon Holder, 
for obvious reasons. It was situated on a small 
promontory overlooking the lake. The water was 
very quiet, on this particular day, and the buildings 
in 


1 12 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

on the further shore stood out with unusual distinct- 
ness. Isabel had lately become able to look at the 
lake without thinking too many tragic thoughts of 
what had happened there many months before. 

“ I’ll be glad when this play is over,” said Meta, 
sinking into the corner of the bench. She threw 
back her head and drew in the air thirstily, as if she 
could not get enough of it. 

“ It will be over pretty soon,” said Isabel as en- 
couragingly as she could. She herself rather 
dreaded the pressure of work and worry that would 
have to be endured before the play were an accom- 
plished fact. 

“ I had a letter from father to-day,” said Meta, 
after a short silence. 

“ What did he say? ” Isabel was wondering 
whether she ought to tell Meta what George Burn- 
ham had hinted about the need of “ rough practical 
experience,” at the supper at Middleton. 

“ He’s been in British Columbia, you know, for 
a long time, looking after some of his saw-mills — ” 

“Yes, I know,” said Isabel. 

“ And now he’s in Seattle. He seems different — 
happier. His letters are longer and not so gloomy 
— not nearly so depressed. In fact, now that I 
think of it, he seems to have been getting happier 
for some time.” 

u Well,, that’s good, Meta.” Isabel was using a 
sprightly tone to cover up the fact that she was not 
listening very intently. 

“ Yes, of course. But he seems to be suddenly 
worried about me — wants to know whether I’m im- 
proving — getting toned down, as he puts it” 


“Frilly Things” 1 1 3 

“ Oh! ” Isabel’s tone had in it a reproach for 
Mr. Houston. 

“ I’ve told him ever so many times how your 
mother and Mrs. Everard- — and you, Izzy-Wizzy, 
though you may deny it — have helped me and 
guided me and — and — loved me, until I’m almost 
as well behaved as anybody.” Meta smiled with a 
little ironical wistfulness. “ But I don’t suppose he 
half reads my letters.” 

“ It’s nice to have him take such an interest, dear.” 
Isabel was more attentive now. 

Meta spoke again, raising her voice passionately. 
“ He never seems to have understood that it made 
much difference how I came up, and now all of a 
sudden he seems to be wonderfully concerned as to 
whether my manners are as refined as they ought 
to be.” 

“He hasn’t seen you for so long — he doesn’t 
know how nice you are ! ” Isabel laughed deprecat- 
ingly and squeezed Meta’s arm. 

“ And he wants to know whether more money 
will help me any,” Meta went on, — “ to hire a 
chaperon or something. Money! ” The girl’s 
eyes filled with tears. “ As if money could take the 
place of love and care ! Sometimes I hate the very 
word money.” 

“ It’s his way of wanting to do something for you, 
Meta. Men are so queer. They think some mate- 
rial thing will please and satisfy us. They don’t 
understand how to express their good intentions ir 
any other way,” Isabel said with a wise look. 

“ I suppose so. Oh, I know I’m unjust to father 
He has always meant well, you know, but he’s beer 


1 14 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

awfully absorbed in his business and his own affairs, 
and sort of thought that a girl could get along al- 
most any way, as long as she had plenty of money 
given to her.” 

“ I think you’ve done beautifully,” cried Isabel 
with sincerity. “ You’ve done so well in your studies 
and in your dramatic work. I never knew any one 
who could work harder than you, and yet you don’t 
make a burden of working.” 

Meta was looking hard across the lake. “ I have 
honestly tried,” she said. “ I didn’t always under- 
stand about things; and when I got to suffering about 
the things I’d missed, I’d try to cover up my feelings 
by being very gay and rash, and making myself be- 
lieve that I was having a wonderful time.” 

“ You’ve made up for the things you’ve missed,” 
said Isabel soberly. 

“ Perhaps, a little. Father is beginning to real- 
ize, I suppose, that he hasn’t given me the right sort 
of training. But he should have thought of that, 
eight years ago. He comes of a splendid family, 
you know, and he’s a well educated man, but he just 
seemed to let go when mother died.” 

“ Now, Meta,” began Isabel sternly. “ You’re 
all right, and your father is all right, too. I don’t 
see what in the world you’re fussing about. I 
couldn’t ask you to be any different — and goodness 
knows I’m a critical minx, if there ever was one ! ” 

“ It seems as if father and I ought to have done 
more for each other,” sighed the other girl. 

“ Well, there’s time enough yet.” Isabel was ag- 
gressively cheerful. 

“ He may come on here, in a few weeks, he says,” 


“Frilly Things ” 


H5 


Meta continued, “ and then he and I can talk these 
things all over. I’ve never done any really straight 
thinking on them before.” There was a long silence, 
as if Meta were reviewing the past and probing the 
future. Isabel grew uncomfortable, and began to 
talk very firmly about other things. As the shadow 
of the trees fell across the Spoon Holder, they rose 
to go home. 

Meta seemed rested and cheered. On the way 
down the Hill, they came up with Iola Fleming, who 
was looking very calm and satisfied in a white serge 
suit. After they had greeted one another, Iola said, 
“ It seems so nice to have you two girls such good 
friends. You’re awfully fond of each other, aren’t 
you?” 

“ Yes, indeed, we are,” answered Isabel with 
extra emphasis, to make up for the fact that Meta 
did not reply. 

“ You’re so picturesque together,” Iola continued 
blandly, — “ one so dark and the other so fair.” 

“You didn’t think we went together on that ac- 
count, did you? ” Meta blurted out scornfully. 

“ Goodness, no.” Iola looked surprised. “ I 
know it’s because you like each other; but it’s nice 
that you look so interesting, too. I was just think- 
ing how horribly near it is to the end of my last 
year in college. You have another year, yet, Meta, 
and you ought to be thankful.” 

“ Yes; but I suppose we ought to begin to plan 
in our junior year what we are going to do when 
our college course is over,” Meta responded, as if 
she were talking to herself. She never wasted much 
speech on Iola, 


1 1 6 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“Don’t you know yet?” Iola was very com- 
placent in her own resolves. “ I’ve made up my 
mind that I’m going to express myself or die. I 
think, when you’ve got something in your heart, it’s 
your duty to see that it gets expressed.” 

“ You mean you’re going to express yourself in 
verse. What if nobody wants the verse?” said 
Meta cruelly. Iola was irritating her more than 
usual. 

“ Oh, they’ve got to want it. And I’m not going 
to express myself in poetry merely. I’m going to 
write novels and every" sort of thing.” 

“ There are different ways of bringing out what 
one has to express,” spoke up Isabel conciliatingly, 
for she saw Meta opening her lips for another satiri- 
cal remark. She was secretly amused at her friend’s 
glowering look. “ I think a good pudding expresses 
the soul of the cook.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course,” returned Iola hastily. She 
had to consider things seriously or not at all. “ But 
I’m talking about the higher things. After you’ve 
spent four years in college, you ought to be con- 
cerned only with the higher things. Leave the lower 
every-day things for those who have never had any 
cultural opportunities.” 

“ M-mh,” meditated Isabel. “ Perhaps the lower 
things might become high, and the higher things 
low, because of the way in which they’re done.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said Iola. 
“ Anyway, I have to leave you here. I envy you, 
Isabel, having so much time before you, in col- 
lege.” 

“ I’m very glad it isn’t my last year,” confessed 


Isabel. She was glad to say good-by to Iola, for 
Meta was chafing and frowning. 

“ Conceited prig! ” cried Meta violently, after 
Iola had turned away. u It’s a lucky thing she 
doesn’t have to support herself, with her high-souled 
twaddle. She’d be mighty glad to have a good 
pudding once in a while, and she’d certainly express 
herself in eating it.” 

“ Oh, now, Meta,” said Isabel, who really liked 
Iola, “ she’s a good soul at heart.” 

“ I suppose so,” Meta grumbled. “ But she bores 
me with her silly talk.” 

“ What are you going to do when you leave col- 
lege?” asked Isabel, to change the subject. “We 
haven’t talked about it for a long time.” 

“ You know well enough that I want to go on the 
stage,” answered Meta, still frowning. “ But then, 
there’s father. I ought to be with him. And then 

— there’s something else.” Her face softened. 

Isabel did not dare to ask whether that something 

else had anything to do with George Burnham. 
“ Of course, things are complicated for you,” she 
murmured, in order to say something intelligent. 

“ I think I ought to make a home for father,” 
Meta was going on. “ It isn’t right for him to be 
alone so much — I can see that now — without a 
center for his interests. Since I’ve seen your home 

— the one your mother makes for all of you — a 
home seems so much more worth while. I never 
thought it amounted to so much, before.” 

“ Perhaps you’ll make one for yourself, Meta,” 
said Isabel boldly. 

Meta flushed and tried to look as if she did not 


1 1 8 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

understand what Isabel meant. “ I feel, as I said,” 
she replied, “as if I ought to give up my own de- 
sires and ambitions, no matter how much they mean 
to me.” 

“ It would be terrible to give up your dramatic 
work,” argued Isabel, very much distressed. “ You 
could do well on the stage — there isn’t a doubt of 
it.” 

“ Perhaps.” Meta held her head high. u But 
don’t I have a duty that has to be considered? ” 

“ It sounds awfully noble,” responded Isabel 
doubtfully. “ However, I’m not at all sure that 
one person ought to accept such a sacrifice from an- 
other. And how do you know,” she queried tri- 
umphantly, “ that your father would let you give up 
so much for him? ” 

Meta looked startled. “ I hadn’t thought of 
that,” she said hesitatingly. 

“ Better think about it.” 

The girls parted at the corner. Isabel herself 
was doing some thinking as she went on toward 
home. “ It sounds all right,” she said to herself. 
“ It’s like the things that people do in books, but I 
wonder if it is just as right as it sounds? I wonder 
whether Meta isn’t deceiving herself just as much 
as Iola is? Wouldn’t she be sorry, after the first 
enthusiasm of self-satisfaction was over? And 
would her father be right in letting her give up her 
whole career, just to ‘ hold down ’ a home for him, 
when he’s away so large a proportion of the time? 
I shall be keen for seeing how it works out.” 

That evening, after dinner, Rodney Fox came in 
to bring a book which he had promised to lend to 


“Frilly Things ” 119 

Isabel. “ How is Meta getting on with her re- 
hearsing? ” he asked. 

“ Splendidly, I think,” Isabel replied. “ Miss 
Henderson let me watch them, two or three times, 
and I thought Meta did finely.” 

“ She made a great hit, last year, you know,” said 
Rodney. “ Everybody thought she had a lot of 
talent.” 

“ Of course she has; but it’s the real self behind it 
that makes it worth while,” remarked Isabel. 

“She is all right, isn’t she?” Rodney had al- 
ways been pleased over the friendship which had 
sprung up between the two girls. “ I thought you 
would like each other when you got acquainted.” 

“ We stood off for a long time,” said Isabel, recol- 
lecting the distrust and antagonism with which she 
had regarded Meta, and the half-spiteful teasing 
way in which Meta had made things unpleasant for 
her. 

“ Girls are awfully snippy,” announced Rodney, 
as if he were reporting a law of nature which he him- 
self had discovered. 

“ I’m afraid they are,” admitted Isabel humbly. 
“ They are always so frightened lest some one 
shouldn’t be quite so good as they consider them- 
selves.” 

“ They lose a lot by it, too.” Rodney could not 
quite keep a tinge of condemnation out of his voice. 

Isabel agreed again. “ I know they do. But as 
for me,” she confided to Rodney’s ear, “ I don’t be- 
lieve I’ll ever be so unmitigatedly snippy again.” 
The long word seemed to give her speech an extra 
flavor of repentance. 


120 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ I don’t believe you will.” Rodney nodded his 
approval as he took himself off. 

During the days which followed, Isabel found her 
relations with Meta becoming more complicated, in 
spite of — or perhaps because of — the good inten- 
tions of both. 

One afternoon, for instance, they were coming 
home from a matinee, to which Meta had invited 
Isabel, and had stopped to look in at a shop window. 
It displayed a tempting array of fripperies, in the 
way of women’s apparel. 

“ Jefferson is becoming very gay and gorgeous,” 
said Isabel, looking with longing eyes at the pale- 
pink silk garments, trimmed with lace, and orna- 
mented with blue ribbons and tiny chiffon rose-buds. 

“ Yes, those are attractive things,” said Meta, 
critically examining a billowy negligee. 

“ Oh, dear! I just love pretty things like that,” 
complained Isabel, who had a passion for dainti- 
nesses of all sorts. “ I want so many of them, and 
they cost so terribly much. Cousin Eunice wanted 
to get me a lot of them in Paris, but I wouldn’t let 
her. She’d done so much for me, you know. And 
now these — ” 

“ Not bad,” said Meta briefly. She could have 
as many pale-pink silk frivolities as she wanted. 

“ And, oh, look at the Georgette blouse — the 
one with the hand-work and the filet lace in the front. 
That’s sweet, isn’t it? ” 

“ Very. Did you notice,” asked Meta slowly, as 
the girls resumed their walk, “ the blue taffeta dress 
with the rose-and-gold trimmings, that was in the 


“Frilly Things ” 121 

case by the door, when we were in at Keeley’s yes- 
terday? ” 

“ Did I notice it? ” cried Isabel. “ Do you think 
I’m stone-blind? I simply ached for it.” 

“ Now, see here, Isabel,” said Meta, turning sud- 
denly and decisively to her companion. “ There is 
something awfully fascinating about these frilly 
things. I have lots of money to spend — more than 
I need. Won’t you let me — ?” 

“ Oh, Meta, really — ” broke in Isabel, looking a 
trifle scared, “ it’s tremendously good of you, but 
honestly I couldn’t — ” 

“ Why not? ” Meta had taken on an imperious 
air, almost aggressive. 

“ I don’t know exactly why.” Isabel wrinkled 
her forehead dubiously. “ My instinct is against it. 
It would seem — ” She hesitated, looking sidewise 
at Meta. 

“ Well, how would it seem? ” 

“ Oh, just sort of — I don’t know, but as if I 
were working you — as if I wanted to get something 
out of you.” 

“ But we both know that isn’t true.” Meta had 
the proud lift to her head which Isabel both admired 
and feared. 

“ Of course we do, but — ” 

» “ Haven’t you taken things when Mrs. Everard' 
gave them to you? ” 

“ Lots of things — yes. But even there, there’s a 
limit. And then — she’s one of the family.” 

“ Can’t I — be one of the family? ” Meta spoke 
sadly, as if she were hurt. 


122 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

Isabel took hold of her friend’s arm. “ Of 
course, of course,” she stammered. “But — ” 
That seemed to be the only word she could think of, 
and she stopped at that. 

“ In some ways, but not in others, I see,” said 
Meta, still in the sad tone. “ Well, let’s not say 
anything more about it, if you feel like that.” 

Isabel did not say anything, though she was accus- 
ing herself of clumsiness and a show of ingratitude. 

The next afternoon, which was a rainy one, Isabel 
was in her room, when Meta came over for a call. 
She brought with her a very handsome satin knitting- 
bag, which she sometimes carried, though the spec- 
tacle of Meta knitting was always amusing to her 
friends. 

Meta curled up on the foot of the bed. Isabel 
was very delicately polishing her finger-nails with a 
chamois-skin. After the two had talked in a desul- 
tory way for a while, Meta said carelessly, “ Oh, I 
brought along a little something for you. I mustn’t 
forget it.” She began to fumble in her bag. 

“ What is it? ” asked Isabel innocently, laying 
down the chamois-skin. 

“ A tiny present.” Meta took out a parcel 
wrapped in tissue paper. A blush of pink showed 
through the paper, and an edge of lace peeped out. 
“ Not much of anything.” 

Isabel opened the parcel on the bed. It contained 
a pink silk petticoat, exquisitely made, with garlands 
of lace and touches of ribbon and rose-buds. “ Oh, 
it’s lovely! ” cried Isabel blankly. “ But you’re not 
giving it to me, are you? ” 

“ Of course, Idiot Child. What else did you 


“Frilly Things 


123 


ff 


think?” Meta was elaborately unconscious of the 
fact that there had been any discussion of “ frilly 
things ” as presents. 

“ Oh, but you shouldn’t,” Isabel protested. 

“ Can’t I give you a harmless little gift, if I 
choose? ” 

“ Theoretically, yes. But — ” 

“ I’ve heard that word enough,” interrupted Meta 
with humorous firmness. “ It’s taboo. It’s a sweet 
thing, isn’t it? ” She took up the ruffle of the skirt, 
and examined it, so as not to have to meet Isabel’s 
eyes. 

Isabel caressed the shell-pink silk. It was just the 
sort of thing that she “ adored.” “ It’s darling,” 
she whispered. The beauty of the garment had won 
her over. She had forgotten the word hut. “ I 
can’t begin to thank you, Lady Clara,” she said, as 
if she feared she had not been quick enough with 
her thanks. “ I do think it’s no end kind of you.” 

“ Don’t bother about thanks,” responded Meta. 
She looked gratified when she was sure that her gift 
was accepted. “ I want to say,” she continued hur- 
riedly, “ that I ordered the Georgette blouse for 
you.” 

“Oh!” Isabel gasped with ecstasy and re- 
proach. 

“ And the blue taffeta.” Meta’s tone was studi- 
ously careless. “ They’ll be up here to-morrow 
forenoon.” 

“Meta!” Isabel was nonplussed. “I — I 
don’t know what to say. You overwhelm me,” she 
said at last. 

“ I insist on your having them,” Meta answered. 


124 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

She had a slightly dominating air, in spite of the 
affectionate generosity which her face displayed. 
“ I love to give them to you. You look so nice in 
pretty clothes. I feel as if I had a younger sister 
to ‘ doll up,’ as the boys say. It’s such a pleasure 
to me; and you know it doesn’t deprive me of any- 
thing.” 

Isabel went to the window and looked out at the 
dripping rain, the mud in the street, the bending 
boughs of the trees. A farmer was going by, 
hunched up on his wagon-seat; two girls passed, 
walking under one umbrella, which exposed first one 
flower-decked hat and then the other to the down- 
pour; a dog trotted gloomily along with his tail 
down. 

“ All right, Meta,” said Isabel after her cogitat- 
ing silence. “ I’ll keep them if mother says I may. 
Thank you ever and ever so much. It’s lovely of 
you — it’s dear. I can’t begin — ” She was ready 
with her thanks again. 

“ I don’t want to be thanked,” reiterated Meta 
fretfully. “ I just want to give you the things! ” 

“ Very well. I shouldn’t know how to express 
my gratitude anyway. But I’ll try to look my best 
when I wear them.” 

“ That’s saying a good deal,” said Meta, who ap- 
peared well content with the way in which things 
had turned out. 

After Meta had gone, Isabel took the petticoat 
over her arm, and went to her mother’s room. 
Mrs. Carleton was reading Walden f which she al- 
ways read through at this time in the spring. 

“ Mother, gaze on this ! ” Isabel spread out the 


“Frilly Things” 125 

pink-and-white flounces, in all their delicacy of rose- 
bud and garland. 

Mrs. Carleton lowered her book. “ Oh, it’s 
beautiful, child.” Her eyes were full of amaze- 
ment, mingled with chiding. “ But you must have 
squandered all your allowance at one fell swoop. 
Don’t you think that was rash?” 

“ No, Muzzy. I don’t believe my whole allow- 
ance would much more than buy this. Meta gave 
it to me.” 

“ That was kind of Meta,” said Mrs. Carleton 
in a puzzled way, as she fingered the trimming of 
the skirt. “ Isn’t it rather too generous of her? ” 

“Well, but — mother — ” Isabel felt guilty, 
she hardly knew why. 

“ Yes?” 

u She’s ordered a Georgette blouse for me, too — 
one I liked, down at the Silk Shop.” 

“A blouse, too?” Mrs. Carleton looked up 
quizzically. “ You didn’t hint, did you, Flora Mac- 
Flimsey ? ” 

“ Oh, mother, no ! Not that I was aware of. 
We were just looking at it, and I said I liked it. 
One may say that, I should think.” 

u One ought to be allowed to.” Mrs. Carleton 
was smiling perplexedly. 

“ And — ” Isabel found it hard to say the rest: 
“ She’s ordered a blue taffeta dress — the sweetest 
thing, with rose-and-gold-and-jade-green embroidery 
on it, and gold fringe on the sash — perfectly stun- 
ning.” Isabel’s cheeks were red with the remem- 
bered and anticipated glory of the gown. “ We 
saw it together, and I didn’t say a word about it. 


126 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

I didn’t even think she noticed it — and then to-day 
she ordered the dress sent to me.” 

Mrs. Carleton stared. “A taffeta dress!” she 
echoed. “Well, well! Meta is a generous girl. 
But how do you feel about taking such things from 
her? ” The face of the lady showed that she her- 
self felt disturbed and uncertain. 

“ At first I refused to take anything from her, 
and told her that it wasn’t right for her to give me 
things,” Isabel explained. “ But she said she loved 
to do it, and begged me to take ’em. What do you 
think about it, Mumsey? ” The girl’s hands were 
moving over the soft pink silk while she spoke. 

“ Do as you like, my child,” Mrs. Carleton re- 
plied. “ It’s your problem, you know. It seems 
churlish not to accept gifts kindly meant, that don’t 
deprive any one else. And yet — ” 

“Yes, and yet—?” 

“ It won’t impair your friendship, will it? ” 

“ I don’t see how it can,” answered Isabel, as if 
she had already gone over all the arguments. 

“ Well, dear, go ahead and do what seems wise 
to you.” The smile with which Mrs. Carleton ac- 
companied her words was an assurance that she was 
not predicting evil. 

“ I do want the dress,” the girl sighed yearningly. 
“ It’s too pretty for words.” 

“ If it makes you happy, take it.” Mrs. Carleton 
was seeking her place in Walden again. 

Isabel went back to her room and laid the skirt 
away in a sweet-scented dresser-drawer, among her 
very choicest bits of adornment. The joy of pos- 
session was rapidly destroying all doubts about the 


“Frilly Things” 127 

wisdom of accepting the attractive things for which 
she longed. 

The box was in Isabel’s room at noon the next 
day, when she came home from her classes. She 
said nothing about it, but after luncheon she ran 
up to try on the new garments. The filmy blouse 
folded back gracefully from the white girlish throat, 
and gave the wearer a charm which even her self- 
deprecating eyes could not deny. 

“ I’ll get so much good out of this for half-dressy 
occasions,” she said to herself exultingly. She 
could scarcely take off the blouse, even to replace it 
by the greater splendor of the gown. 

The dress came rustling out of its folds of tissue 
pap£r, and hung from her hand in all its perfection 
of flounce and embroidery and gold-fringed sash. 
Isabel slipped it on, rejoicing in the smooth stiffness 
of the silk, and the aroma of newness which it ex- 
haled. She hooked it up hurriedly, twisting about 
before the glass, in order to catch every effect. It 
was immensely becoming, — just as she felt sure it 
would be. It seemed as if it were made especially 
for her. 

She put on her Venetian lace collar, and pinned 
it with the big jade brooch that Madame Doret had 
given her. The color of the jade setting matched 
certain green tones in the embroidery. Isabel drew 
a long breath of satisfaction. Then she called her 
mother to come and look. 

“ Oh, my dear! It assuredly is lovely.” Mrs. 
Carleton could not restrain her enthusiasm when 
she saw the elegant figure standing before the glass, 
the slender shape and bright golden hair enhancing 


128 


Isabel Carleton s Friends 


the real beauty of the gown. “ It’s almost too rich 
for a school-girl; but then, it’s simple, too, and the 
lines are excellent — very reserved, and yet stylish.” 
She was going over it point by point. 

“ It’s just the thing for afternoon affairs, isn’t 
it?” said Isabel, peering over her shoulder to see 
just how the folds fell in the back of the skirt. 
“ Some of the sorority girls dress so well, mother, 
that this won’t be out of place at all.” 

“ It has an air,” conceded Mrs. Carleton. “ It’s 
the kind of dress that would make any one feel com- 
fortable, anywhere.” 

“ I never could send it back, now, after we’ve 
seen how nice it is — could I ? ” Isabel was on the 
defensive against any scruples which her mother 
might still retain. 

“ The sleeves are a trifle too long,” said Mrs. 
Carleton non-committally. She was willing that the 
girl should make her own decisions. “ They could 
be shortened here at the cuff.” 

Isabel was glad that she did not have to explain 
the dress to Fanny until she had become better ac- 
customed to it herself. 

She wore it to a Pi Phi reception the verv next 
afternoon. Meta had been busy with rehe;- sals, 
and had not come over ; but she telegraphed her ap- 
proval by the eyebrow method, when Isabel walked 
into the room at the Pi Phi lodge. Isabel felt a 
sudden misgiving. She was, unexpectedly to her- 
self, nervous and self-conscious in feeling Meta’s 
gaze fixed upon her. 

Several of the college girls crowded around Isabel, 
to whisper how dear she looked in the new gown, 


“Frilly Things 


129 


)) 


and how perfectly the lace and the jade pin went 
with it. Isabel, answering them with light parrying 
jokes, had an uneasy sensation, for she knew that 
Meta could not help hearing bits of the conversation. 

“You never got that in Jefferson, did you?” 
“ I know where you got it, for I saw it down at 
Keeley’s. I wanted it frightfully, but I couldn’t 
afford it.” “ You couldn’t have picked out a more 
becoming frock.” These were some of the remarks 
which Isabel heard, and which, harmless as they 
were, gave her a twinge of discomfort. 

“ I feel somehow as if I had taken the dress out 
of Meta’s wardrobe,” she said to herself. “ I won- 
der why I feel so queer about it? ” 

Meta came over and said, “ You look as sweet as 
a peach, Isabel,” and then began to talk about other 
things before Isabel could answer. While they 
were talking Meta looked at her friend with an un- 
consciously gratified air. 

“ I know,” said Isabel again, within her own 
heart. “ I feel as if I were a doll that Meta had 
dressed up for a bazaar. I had no idea it would be 
like this. I suppose I’m horrid and ungrateful, but 
I’m not half so happy as I expected to be.” 

Bertram Dodge sauntered up just then, open ad- 
miration expressed upon his handsome cynical face, 
and Isabel had a long talk with him, which she after- 
ward recollected to be chiefly about himself. And 
then Mrs. Mitchell and Madame D’Albert stopped 
to tell her about the clever tricks of their respective 
youngsters, incidentally remarking that she looked 
“ adorable ” and “ charmante ” 

Isabel was sorry that Rodney was not there; the 


130 Isabel Carletons Friends 

throes of mechanical drawing which had to be com- 
pleted by a certain date were absorbing all his time 
and attention. But young Professor Sothern 
brought her ice cream, and talked a while with her 
about her trip to Europe. In the general gayety 
of the assemblage and the conversation, she forgot 
her strange qualms about the gown. 

Later, she had an uncomfortable quarter of an 
hour with Fanny, who broadly hinted at vanity and 
toadying (a hateful word, Isabel thought), but who 
grudgingly admitted that the dress was not alto- 
gether repulsive in its appearance. 

And then on Monday, a hat was sent up, a coquet- 
tishly tilted gray straw, with dull-pink velvet roses 
and green buds, which just matched the embroidery 
on the dress. Isabel groaned when she saw it, but 
succumbed to its charm when she had once put it 
on her head. She attempted to thank Meta and to 
protest against receiving any further bounty, but was 
repressed with a firm hand. 

On Wednesday she found another parcel in her 
room. It proved to contain a pair of high light- 
colored leather shoes, such as were then considered 
the acme of style and good taste. Isabel had 
yearned for some, and her heart leaped when she 
beheld them ; but it sank again when she remembered 
the problem which they presented. 

“ I might send them back,” she meditated, as she 
stared at the shoes lopping against each other on the 
dresser, where she had carefully placed them. 
“ But Meta would be hurt and cross, and I don’t 
want to wrangle with her.” When she went over 
to Meta’s rooms that night, she broached the sub- 


“Frilly Things” 


131 

ject of the shoes. “ Oh, Meta, dear, you shouldn’t,” 
she cried almost pleadingly. “ It isn’t good for me 
to have you do so much! ” 

Meta silenced her with an imperious gesture. 
Isabel thought of the “barbaric princess” of their 
earlier acquaintance. “ I love to do it,” Meta said 
with willful sternness. “ I insist on giving you what 
I choose.” 

“ It’s lovely of you,” faltered Isabel, as she had 
at other times tried to make her replies appropri- 
ately grateful. 

“ She almost acts as if I belonged to her,” com- 
plained Isabel, still communing with herself, as she 
walked home after the interview with Meta. “ It 
seems as if she wanted to dominate me.” And then 
she felt ashamed of herself, for a carping hard- 
hearted wretch, too selfish and clumsy either to re- 
fuse a gift gracefully or to appreciate rightly the 
generosity which prompted it. “ I’ve got myself 
into a shocking muddle,” she sighed. “ And I’m 
afraid it was my vanity that did it.” 

She was ashamed to go to her mother for com- 
fort, after the responsibilities which she had taken 
upon herself in the matter of Meta’s gifts. She 
found herself wearing the new clothes as little as 
possible, because of the undefined sense of humili- 
ation that went with them when she put them on. 


CHAPTER VIII 

FRIENDSHIP IMPERILED 

I SABEL was coming home from a very formal 
luncheon at the home of Mrs. Hylas, a wealthy 
woman, who made herself a power, both in the 
University and in town. The young women who 
had been invited to the luncheon were an especially 
smart group, and Isabel, as she walked down Lang- 
don Street, was glad, in spite of her perplexities, 
that her clothes had made a good appearance. She 
was even now conscious of a look of respectful ad- 
miration in the eyes of the people whom she met on 
the street. 

She was wearing the blue silk gown, with its sub- 
dued richness of trimming; the little tilted hat, which 
set off the dress to perfection; the light shoes; and 
a marabout scarf and white kid gloves, part of last 
year’s European purchases. As she walked along, 
she noticed how brilliant the tulips were on the lawns 
which she was passing, and resolved to have more 
tulips in her own garden next year. Then she heard 
a familiar whistle, and looked up to see Rodney Fox 
hurrying across the street to join her. 

He fell into step beside her, and they went on, 
talking about gardens and tulips for a few moments, 
until Rodney, turning to Isabel impulsively, said, 
“ Do you know, lady, you rather overwhelm me. 
You look like a princess or something.” 

13a 


Friendship Imperiled 133 

“ Your words are vague but pleasing,” Isabel re- 
turned with a dimple showing at the corner of her 
mouth. 

“ That’s a gorgeous rig you have on,” Rodney 
continued. 

“ Rig, indeed ! ” his companion answered teas- 
ingly. “ Don’t you think it deserves a better name 
than that? ” 

“ Well, costume, raiment, apparel, garb, habili- 
ments, toilette — take your choice. Mere Man 
wouldn’t know the right word, anyway, but believe 
me, he gets the idea.” 

“ I hope toilette is the right word, if the French 
would think it harmonious enough for that,” Isabel 
responded. 

“ They’d be dippy if they didn’t. I don’t know 
that I dare walk on the same side of the street with 
you.” As a matter of fact, Rodney was looking 
very well himself in a new gray twilled suit. 

“ You needn’t be afraid,” said Isabel absently. 
Her face was downcast. “ It bothers me,” she said 
at last, as if she could not refrain from speaking. 

“ bothers you — my suit, or walking on the 

same side of the street with it? ” Rodney inquired 
with some curiosity. 

“ Neither. This rig is what I refer to.” 

“Why? It certainly makes you look beautiful, 
Isabel.” Rodney’s earnestness left no doubt as to 
the impression which the toilette had made. 

“ I don’t care if it does,” was the rash rejoinder. 

“ But why? I thought girls just reveled in hav- 
ing a lot of becoming clothes.” 

Isabel felt moved to confide in Rodney. One 


x 34 


Isabel Carletoris Friends 


could tell him almost anything, and he was pretty 
sure to understand. 

“ These clothes worry me, as I said before,’’ she 
burst out, “ because I feel like the jackdaw dressed 
up in the feathers of the peacock.” 

Rodney looked astonished. “ I don’t understand. 
Aren’t they your own? They look as if they be- 
longed to you.” Rodney gave the garments in ques- 
tion a comprehensive glance. 

“ Yes, I suppose they do. They were given to 
me,” Isabel answered. 

“ Aren’t most of your things given to you — I 
mean, either the money or the things themselves? 
You don’t earn ’em yourself, do you? ” 

“ No, of course not. I have to take things from 
my family — so far. I hope to be independent very 
soon — ” 

u Do you? ” muttered Rodney. 

Isabel went on with dignity, not deigning to notice 
the interruption. “ But Meta gave me these, Rod.” 

“ Oh,” said Rodney quickly. He broke off a 
twig from a tree that hung over the sidewalk, and 
crumbled the bit of wood thoughtfully as he walked 
along. 

Isabel seemed to be waiting for him to speak. 
“ Your tone implies that that alters the case.” 

“Why — no — I don’t see why it should.” 
Rodney was careful to keep his voice from express- 
ing any very serious conviction. 

“ Neither do I, exactly. But it’s strange how 
* beholden ’ I feel toward her. I’m uneasy and un- 
comfortable. It isn’t her fault. She’s perfectly 


Friendship Imperiled 135 

sweet and generous about it. But it worries me; 
it’s making me miserable.” 

“ Why? ” Rodney asked, as if he were a consult- 
ing physician. 

“ I don’t know.” Isabel was confused and puz- 
zled. And then she had an inspiration. “ But sup- 
pose, for instance, that George Burnham should 
want to give you a new suit of clothes and a silk hat 
and a cane.” 

“ Ha ! ” cried Rodney involuntarily. 

“ I thought so,” breathed Isabel. 

“ I didn’t say anything,” Rodney defended him- 
self. 

“ No, but I got it just the same.” 

“ Have it your own way.” 

“ I see that it’s spoiling our friendship. It’s al- 
ways been so — so right; never any wrangling, or 
any stupid questions of give-and-take. And now I 
begin to feel inferior and dependent, and at the 
same time I hate myself for ingratitude. It’s des- 
troying the freedom between us. And it seems so 
queer.” 

“ I’ve noticed,” said Rodney thoughtfully, 
“ among the fellows, that as soon as any question 
of money or patronage crept in, friendship sneaked 
out.” 

“ I can see how that would be,” Isabel replied. 

“ And I suppose girls are just the same as fellows 
in their instincts about such things,” Rodney re- 
marked. 

“They should be. This talk has cleared my 
mind.” Isabel spoke with decision. “ No more 


136 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

of this Lady Bountiful business — much as I love 
pretty things. They aren’t worth sacrificing a 
friendship for.” And then she added apprehen- 
sively, “ Do you think I can make that clear to 
Meta?” 

“ I don’t see why not. She has a lot of sense.” 

“ Yes, and sensitiveness, too.” 

“ Very few of us have rhinoceros’ hides, I no- 
tice.” 

“ Alas, yes ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t want one, myself.” Rodney was 
leaving Isabel, in front of the Carleton house. 
“ I’m coming over to-morrow to see how your gar- 
den grows, Mistress Mary.” 

“ Do. Everything is springing up beautifully.” 

“ Good-by.” Rodney raised his hat, with a back- 
ward glance. 

“ Good-by.” . 

Isabel went into the house with a firm resolve to 
“ straighten things out with Meta,” as soon as she 
conveniently could. 

The days thereafter were full of activity, and 
every moment seemed to be occupied. There was 
the unceasing push of lessons to be prepared, note- 
books to be “ written up,” papers and reports and 
themes to be handed in at certain dates, transla- 
tions to be made, meetings and committees to attend. 
Then there was the garden to be looked after; and 
the usual home tasks had to be accomplished. 
Sprinkled in between the hours of work were amuse- 
ments of one sort or another. Isabel saw Meta 
every day, either by chance or appointment, but for 


Friendship Imperiled 137 

some time there did not seem to be an appropriate 
time for broaching the subject of Lady Bountiful. 
Isabel had a pang of apprehension every time she 
saw a dry-goods delivery wagon approaching the 
house. “ I must get it over before anything else 
happens,” she said to herself. 

Late one afternoon, George and Rodney, and 
Isabel and Meta took lunch baskets and went across 
the lake in a public launch, to have a picnic. When 
George proposed the excursion, the evening before, 
Isabel agreed light-heartedly enough, and entered 
gayly into the plans for preparing the lunch and 
meeting at the dock. She was too busy during the 
day to think much about the matter; but, as the 
time came near, it became more and more a horror to 
think of going out upon the water. She had not 
been on the lake since the time of her great tragedy, 
a year and a half before. 

Nevertheless, she forced herself to go down to 
the dock at Angleworm Station, — “ such an appe- 
tizing place to start from, for a picnic,” as George 
had observed. The others were waiting when she 
arrived, and the steamer was at the wharf, almost 
ready for its regular trip to the other side of the 
lake. 

When the whistle blew, Isabel clutched Meta’s 
sleeve. She was saying under her breath, “ Oh, I 
can’t go, I can’t go ! ” It seemed as if an iron 
chain were round her feet. 

“ Oh, Isabel,” said Meta in an amazed tone, 
“ you aren’t going to back out, are you? ” 

“ I think I’ll have to.” Isabel had grown limp 
and unsteady, and her face was very pale. 


138 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“ That’s too bad,” cried Meta accusingly. 
“ What are the rest of us going to do? ” 

The whistle blew again, with three short blasts, 
to show that the time was short. Still Isabel shrank 
back. Then she turned sharply, as if to run away. 
George had gone aboard with the baskets, and Rod- 
ney was waiting to help the girls. George stood 
tense, watching the little drama on the dock. His 
cap was drawn down over his abundant red-brown 
hair, and his blue eyes were questioning and sympa- 
thetic. Meta gave him a glance of despair. 

Rodney stepped to Isabel’s side. “ Go on, 
Meta,” he said authoritatively. Meta went re- 
luctantly, and stepped into the launch, assisted by a 
hand from George. Rodney very calmly put his 
hand under Isabel’s elbow. Isabel turned her white 
face toward him. 

“ I can’t go,” she whispered. 

“ Now, Isabel,” said Rodney, in a low voice, 
which had a sternly compelling quality in it, “ it’s 
time you got over this nonsense. You mustn’t make 
a spectacle of yourself. It’s up to you to show 
your good sense.” 

“I — I’m afraid I haven’t any, Rod,” Isabel an- 
swered weakly. 

“ Yes, you have! ” Rodney’s authoritative man- 
ner was not to be resisted. “ You have too much 
sense to spoil everybody’s fun, and cast a blight over 
yourself as well. Come on. Don’t give in to your 
emotions. It’s childish — and selfish at that.” 

Isabel gave him a frightened look. She had 
never heard Rodney speak in that way before. She 
seemed to wake as from a bad dream. With quick 


Friendship Imperiled 139 

resolution, she ran forward, Rodney beside her, 
and leaped over the edge of the boat, which was 
almost on a level with the dock. The owner of 
the launch, who had been busy with the engine, now 
sounded a last warning toot on the whistle and took 
the wheel for departure. The four young people 
simultaneously drew a long breath, as they settled 
themselves on the leather seats around the stern of 
the boat. All at once, with the rapid readjustment 
of youth, they began to chatter and laugh, as if noth- 
ing had happened. 

As the launch sped away from the dock, Isabel 
found to her surprise that all her fear and shrinking 
had gone. She looked with the remembered ecstasy 
at the shining blue lake, the long curving white line 
of the further shore, the woods beyond — pale- 
green, mellowed by a thin mist of blue. The fresh 
wind touched her face, and brought back the color 
to her cheeks. 

Then she found that Rodney was speaking, under 
cover of a lively conversation between Meta and 
George. “ You’ll have to forgive me for being so 
hard with you,” he was saying uncomfortably. “ It 
seemed to be the only way to rouse you out of the 
state you were in.” 

“ It’s all right, Rod.” She looked at him grate- 
fully. “ You did the very best thing. I was child- 
ish and selfish. And I’m not going to be so, any 
more.” She thrilled with a sense of exultation in 
the triumph which they two had made over painful 
memories and sickly emotions. The rest of the trip 
was as harmonious as one could wish. 

But complications were to come. 


140 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

The lunch was a very gay one, eaten as the four 
sat about a grassy space, sheltered by rocks and a 
fallen tree, over which a vine was climbing. The 
food disappeared to the accompaniment of the jol- 
liest sort of banter, which was prolonged till after 
the baskets had been re-packed and set aside. 

“ I’ll bet we could get ice cream cones, over there 
at the pavilion,” said George, indicating a rough 
booth which stood at some distance down the shore. 

“Too early in the season, don’t you think?” 
asked Rodney lazily. 

“ Let’s walk over and see,” George suggested. 
“ It’s pretty bad walking through the brush and 
over the stones. The girls can stay here, and talk 
us over while we’re gone. Or do you prefer to dis- 
cuss the styles?” 

“ We’ll find something to keep us from regretting 
your absence too keenly,” laughed Isabel. She had 
a happy thought. “ Now is a good time to have 
that talk with Meta. Everything is peaceful. 
She’s in good humor, and so am I.” 

When the young men had gone, the two girls sat 
for a few minutes, watching the sunset colors creep- 
ing along the water. Then Isabel said in as care- 
less a tone as she could command, “ Meta, dear, 
I’ve been having solemn communings with myself.” 

“ Is that so-? ” said Meta absently. “ What’s it 
all about? ” 

“ Not about shoes and ships and sealing-wax,” 
answered Isabel, “ but about shoes and hats and 
blue silk dresses.” 

“ Those are silly things to commune about,” re- 
plied Meta suspiciously. 


Friendship Imperiled 141 

“ Not altogether,” Isabel made response. 
“ Now, Meta,” she went on firmly, “ please, please 
don’t think me ungrateful, — ” 

Meta turned away impatiently. “ Oh, come, Isa- 
bel,” she interrupted. “ I don’t want to hear about 
the writhings of your New England conscience. I 
want to tell you something funny that happened 
while we were rehearsing yesterday.” 

“ I know all about that. Olive Sellers told me 
this morning. Listen — ” 

“ Well, what is it, if I must hear it? ” Meta 
gave grudging attention. 

“ It’s about shoes and hats and petticoats, as I 
before remarked.” 

“ What about ’em? ” 

“ I can’t, I just can’t have you giving me things, 
Meta.” Isabel was speaking very fast, to get the 
ordeal over. “ Can’t you see that it’s spoiling our 
friendship? (Oh, dear, that wasn’t what I meant 
to say,” she thought.) 

Meta stared coldly. “ No, I am not aware of it. 
And if it’s spoiled, it isn’t the clothes that did it, I’m 
sure.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t say it was spoiled,” Isabel ex- 
plained hastily. “ I meant it might be, if we kept 
on. 

“ It’s all the same,” said Meta. She had a hurt, 
surprised expression on her face. “I thought — 
I had the boldness to think — that we were good 
friends. Was I mistaken?” 

“ No, no, of course not.” Isabel was bitterly 
regretting her stupidity in opening the discussion. 
“ We are good friends. I meant, we’re such good 


142 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

friends that it seems a pity to let anything so insig- 
nificant as a pair of shoes come between us.” 

Meta was apparently far from pleased with the 
word insignificant. “ I thought you’d like them,” 
she said reproachfully. “ They were the nicest they 
had at Austin’s.” 

Isabel was hideously uncomfortable. “ Oh, dear ! 
Why does she make it so hard for me? ” she thought. 
“ They’re lovely shoes,” she said aloud, with tears 
in her eyes. “ Too lovely. I feel sure that I ought 
not to take such things from you.” 

“ Why not? ” Meta was colder than ever. 

“ I’ve told you. Because it makes me miserable,” 
Isabel answered. “ I feel so — so inferior.” 

“ I shouldn’t think you’d allow yourself to have 
such feelings.” Meta’s voice had a quiver in it 
which almost suggested contempt. 

Isabel swallowed hard. “ Anyhow, I do.” She 
was going on hopelessly. “ It seems as if, no mat- 
ter" what I said, I weren’t acting grateful enough — ” 

“ Did I act as if I expected you to be grateful? ” 
Meta was very lofty now. 

u No, no! but I felt—” 

“ My dear, you’re ‘ morbidly introspective,’ as 
your mother says. Spare me, I beg of you.” 

Isabel wondered whether Meta were right. She 
had now lost all perspective on the subject. But she 
floundered on. “Now, Lady Clare, you know it 
isn’t morbidly introspective to want to maintain one’s 
self-respect.” There was a choke in her throat. 
“ You know perfectly well that I love the things you 
give me, and love you for giving them, but — ” 

“ But! That seems to be almost the only word 


Friendship Imperiled 143 

in your vocabulary, Isabel.” Meta picked up a peb- 
ble and threw it into the water with a splash. 

“ It isn’t,” said Isabel desperately. “ I can’t ac- 
cept clothes from you, Meta, — not anything so per- 
sonal — ” 

“ Very well.” Meta was elaborately calm and 
polite. “ You don’t need to. Henceforth you shall 
not be troubled.” 

“ Oh-h ! ” Isabel sank back despairingly. 

Just then the boys came crashing through the un- 
derbrush, from the direction of the pavilion. Each 
carried two ice cream cones, carefully protected 
from the sweeping hazel bushes. “Hooray!” 
called Rodney. “ Here comes the hokey-pokey 
man.” 

The young men were innocently beaming as they 
approached with the luscious cones, heaped with 
pink ice cream which was beginning to drip over the 
edges of the pastry. The girls, too recently 
wrested from their hot discussion, stared at Rodney 
and George nervously and gave them only a languid 
reception. 

“ Oh, that’s fine,” said Isabel feebly, and then 
turned away to dab her eyes with her handkerchief. 
Meta, her cheeks brilliantly red and her head very 
high, glanced witheringly at the dribbling cones, and 
continued to toss pebbles into the water. 

The young men stared at each other with a wild 
surmise. George framed a noiseless question over 
the heads of the girls. “ What’s up? ” he queried 
voicelessly, with active lips. 

Rodney shrugged his shoulders and sent back a 
wireless “ Search me ! ” There was an embarrassed 


144 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

silence. Then Rodney began to expostulate. “ See 
here, girls, don’t you want some of these cones, after 
we’ve toiled through the wilderness to find ’em?” 
he asked, in the tone of the male person whose best 
efforts are unappreciated by incomprehensible fe- 
males. 

Isabel held up her hand for one, and took it with 
a formal “ Thank you.” She began to nibble at it 
with no show of zest. 

“ I don’t care for any,” said Meta coolly. An- 
other pebble made a frog-like leap into the water. 

“Don’t want any! Oh, say, now,” complained 
George. “ Rod and I can’t eat these. We each 
had one at the counter.” He gazed helplessly at 
the cones in his hands. 

“ I’m sorry,” answered Meta. “ But I ate so 
much lunch, I don’t want anything else.” 

“ Well, all right, all right.” George tossed a 
cone into the lake, where it floated, dyeing the water 
around it an oily pink. He laid the remaining cone 
down upon a rock, while he wiped his hands with his 
handkerchief. He and Rodney made hopeless ges- 
tures to each other behind the girls’ backs. 

Rodney took out his watch. “ The steamer’ll 
be here in fifteen minutes,” he said musingly. “ And 
then there’s another, an hour after that.” 

“ Oh, let’s take the next one that comes,” cried 
Isabel eagerly. “ I’m awfully tired. I’ve been 
working like mad lately. I sat up till twelve last 
night, to finish a theme, and I have a history report 
to hand in to-morrow, and — ” 

“ I guess those are reasons enough,” remarked 


Friendship Imperiled 145 

George gravely, but he winked furtively at Rodney. 
The young men went on eating their ice cream cones, 
in the midst of a silence which had grown almost 
ghastly. 

Isabel was thinking wretchedly. “ I suppose our 
friendship is ruined. And I’m not going to blame 
Meta, either. It was my fault for being so frivo- 
lous in the first place. I dare say that’s what father 
means when he quotes, 

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
Make instruments to plague us. 

I never saw any meaning in it before.” 

With a great effort, she made a comment on the 
sunset and the sail-boats across the lake. George 
and Rodney answered with reckless enthusiasm, glad 
to have a semblance of gayety restored. Gradually 
Meta was drawn into the conversation; and by the 
time the boat arrived, they were making a show of 
hilarity, almost equal to that which picnics demand. 
But it was a very hollow hilarity, after all. They 
were the only passengers on the launch, and could 
not hide behind the merry-making of others. 

When they arrived at Angleworm Station, the 
dusk had fallen, and lights were twinkling up the 
hill from the lake. Isabel and Rodney walked to- 
gether, and the others followed, saying very little. 
“ I hope you’re not too tired,” ventured Rodney. 
He had noticed that feminine fretfulness and mo- 
roseness could usually be excused on the plea that 
the lady was “ tired enough to drop.” 

“ Oh, no. I’m all right,” answered the girl. 


146 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

She did not feel like explaining to Rodney that she 
had followed his advice, and “ had it out ” with 
Meta. 

The other three left her at her house, and walked 
on, with a hurried good-night. Isabel did not go 
into the house. She sank down on the steps, and 
huddled up against a pillar, where last year’s vines 
made a shadow. Tears dripped down her cheeks. 

“ Meta and I did — do — love each other,” she 
thought, “ and it does seem too dreadful to have 
things all go to smash like this. And over noth- 
ing, too,” she added. “ Friendships usually go to 
smash over nothing. I wonder why that is? ” She 
heard Fanny calling to her mother, inside the house, 
and later the scraping of Fanny’s violin, producing 
a monotonous succession of exercises. Still the tears 
came. Isabel abandoned herself to the luxury of 
self-pity and regret. 

After a while she was aware of some one coming 
along the street toward the house — some one whom 
she thought she knew. The form hesitated, and 
then came forward up the walk. Isabel, shrinking 
into the shadows, made herself as invisible as possi- 
ble. The other came on. “ It’s Meta ! ” she 
thought, with a swift stab of wonder. “ What does 
she want? ” 

Meta was almost upon the disconsolate shape lean- 
ing against the pillar, before either spoke. The 
older girl drew back in alarm, and then whispered, 
“ Isabel, is that you? ” 

“ Y-yes.” Isabel could not quite control her 
voice. 

“ What are you sitting here for ? ” Meta seemed 


Friendship Imperiled 14 7 

to be at a loss for something to say. Isabel could 
not see her face. 

“ I couldn’t go in. I felt too — too unhappy.” 
Tears were on Isabel’s cheeks again. 

“ So did I.” Meta sat down on the steps. “ I 
suppose our friendship has all gone to bits,” she said 
in a resigned tone. 

“ I suppose so,” Isabel replied mournfully. 

“ I had to see you,” Meta said after a minute, 
during which Isabel used her handkerchief freely. 
“ I scudded right back here, after the boys left me. 
I wanted to tell you — ” She broke off, as if ex- 
pressing herself were impossible. 

“What?” Isabel was as encouraging as she 
could be without appearing too eager. 

“ That I honestly think you’re right,” Meta 
went on hurriedly. “ I’ve got to admit it. I knew 
all along that what I was doing was pretty sure to 
spoil things.” 

“ I ought to have known better myself,” Isabel 
interrupted. “ I was silly and vain, I’m sure.” 

“ Well, I was obstinate,” said Meta. “ I took 
a certain kind of pride in being able to do things for 
you. I wanted you to look pretty, of course; but I 
began to feel as if you belonged to me — as if I 
could dress you up, — ‘ doll ’ you up, you know I 
said. It was like having a plaything — a doll that 
I could deck out with flummeries, just as I chose.” 

“ That shows that I must have been a kind of 
empty-headed doll, myself,” murmured Isabel. She 
wanted to take all the blame that belonged to her. 

“ I can see, now,” Meta continued, ignoring Isa- 
bel’s remark, “ that I was taking your individuality 


148 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

away, forcing you to do something just because I 
wanted it. That’s my besetting sin: I want to over- 
power people, to make them do as I wish. And 
then when you squirmed, I felt injured. I felt sav- 
age, even, as if I couldn’t do a thing that I wanted 
to — as if some right that belonged to me were being 
snatched from me. As a matter of fact, it was just 
the other way.” She paused miserably, in the midst 
of her self-condemnation. 

Isabel felt suddenly light and clear. She began 
to laugh softly. “ How tragic we are, Meta ! ” she 
cried, smothering her voice and her mirth. “ We’re 
really awfully funny, you know, sitting here in the 
dark, bemoaning our faults and failings. The 
whole thing doesn’t amount to a row of beans, now, 
does it? ” 

“Why — why,” Meta stammered, “aren’t you 
hurt and mad and disgusted? ” 

“ Not in the least. Are you? ” Isabel felt for 
the other girl’s hand, in the dark. 

“ No,” responded Meta in rather a surprised 
way, “ I don’t believe I am. What should I be 
mad about? I’ve told you that you were in the 
right.” 

“ Then it’s all settled. We’ve both proclaimed 
that we were wrong, and we both see that the simple 
friendship was better, without any complications.” 
Isabel spoke triumphantly. “ We’re going to begin 
all over again. Aren’t we? ” 

“ Can we? ” asked Meta joyfully. 

“ Nothing to hinder. And oh, Meta, I do love 
you for your generosity. Come on in and see 












































































































. 
























































































































































































































■ ■ 



























“ I don’t see why it’s necessary to let one’s life 
get so cluttered up.” 


Friendship Imperiled 149 

mother.” Isabel jumped up from her strained po- 
sition. 

Meta rose, too. “ No, it’s getting late. I must 
go home and study. I couldn’t till I’d seen you.” 

A shaft of light from a street lamp fell on the 
faces of the girls. They looked into each other’s 
eyes, happy and relieved. u Do you know,” Meta 
said awkwardly, “ I’m astonished at myself for con- 
fessing that I was wrong. I’ve always been so stub- 
born, and proud of the fact that I never gave in.” 

“ We both really gave in at once,” Isabel re- 
minded her. 

“ I wouldn’t do it for any one but you,” concluded 
Meta. “ And haven’t any idea that I’ll ever be so 
meek again — no matter what happens.” Isabel 
squeezed her hand without saying anything; but she 
was hoping that nothing would happen. 

The next afternoon, Isabel was crouching low on 
the ground in the garden, digging up some very per- 
sistent weeds around the marigold sprouts, when 
Rodney and George suddenly stood beside her. 
“ Did you drop from an air-ship? ” she gasped, look- 
ing up breathlessly, with a trowel in her hand. 

“ No, not this time,” laughed George. “ We 
may be doing it soon. Your mother told us where 
you were, and we came out quietly, to surprise you.” 

“You succeeded.” Isabel straightened up, and 
pushed the hair away from her eyes. 

“ Things get on like a house a-fire,” commented 
Rodney, gazing around the yard with a kind of pride 
of ownership. “ You’ll need more help with these 
weeds.” 


150 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ So Fanny says,” twinkled Isabel. “ She expects 
this to be an impenetrable jungle of pigweed, in 
about a week — so I judge from her talk.” 

“ We’ll fool her,” said Rodney warmly. 

“ May I take a look around? ” asked George. 
“ I haven’t been in here for some time.” 

“ Surely.” Isabel was glad of an opportunity of 
speaking to Rodney. “ Oh, Rod,” she went on, “ I 
don’t know what you and George must have thought 
yesterday. First I acted so silly about going on the 
water, and then Meta and I got into that wrangle 
while you were after the ice cream cones, and things 
were simply unspeakable.” She looked her distress. 

“ Oh, well, things can’t always go like clockwork,” 
said Rodney forgivingly. “ Are they better to- 
day? ” 

“ Splendid. Meta and I got everything straight- 
ened out last night.” 

“ Last night?” 

“Yes. Meta skipped over here as soon as you 
and George left her, and I was sitting out on the 
front porch in the dark — ” 

“ Sniffling,” said Rodney. “ I’ll bet you were.” 
His bright eyes searched Isabel’s. 

“ Well — I was. And we had a talk — and, any- 
how, things are all right now.” She sighed. 
“ That seems to be what life chiefly consists of — 
getting into muddles, and then muddling out again.” 

“ That’s about it, lady,” Rodney conceded cheer- 
fully. “ At least for us youngsters.” 

“ I’m glad we usually flounder out,” said Isabel. 
She stood pensive with her trowel in her hand. 

George was coming back from his stroll about the 


Friendship Imperiled 15 1 

garden. “ Don’t you want to sit down and rest a 
minute? ” he said, motioning toward the rustic bench 
beside the arbor. 

All three sat down on the bench. Isabel took off 
her gloves and pulled at the fingers thoughtfully. 

“ Rod and I are trying to settle our destinies,” 
remarked George in his satirical manner, after they 
had been sitting for a few moments; “ for the sum- 
mer, at least.” 

Isabel looked from one to the other. “ How’s 
that? ” she asked. 

“ We’re both yearning for practical experience.” 

“ Oh, yes. Rod said something about it — or 
one of you, anyway.” 

“ I’m aching to get out and do something besides 
figure and weigh and do experiments in laboratories, 
and draw lines on paper,” exclaimed Rodney, frown- 
ing. 

“ And I’m tired of letters and charts and maps 
and theories,” said Burnham. “ Two years of it is 
all that I can stand.” 

“ You seem to be two souls with but a single 
thought,” said Isabel, glinting a smile at each. 

“ We are, on this subject. Now, if one could 
only combine business and pleasure,” George con- 
tinued, “ life would be worth while; if, for instance, 
one could ply his trade under the greenwood tree, 
and earn his shekels on the bank of a trout-stream ! ” 

“You don’t ask anything, do you?” muttered 
Rodney. 

“ Why not ‘ git a-plenty while you’re a-gittin’ ’? ” 
George defended himself. “ Especially when you’re 
taking it out in wishes.” 


152 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“If wishes were — trout, we’d have plenty to 
fry,” interpolated Isabel. 

“ Unfortunately,” Rodney was saying, “ one 
doesn’t often manage to combine business and pleas- 
ure in just that way, so he has to live without one 
or the other. It usually happens to be pleasure 
which he eliminates.” 

“ I don’t see why we can’t have both,” meditated 
George. “ Every human being has a right to hon- 
est work and honest enjoyment — about equally 
divided.” 

“ People in general don’t seem to realize that,” 
remarked Isabel. 

“ No. Some people take all the pleasure and 
leave the work for anybody who is foolish enough 
to do it. But the time will come when the balance 
will be adjusted. People will never get what be- 
longs to them until they realize that it is theirs.” 
George was very serious now. 

“ Your philosophy is all right,” returned Rodney 
dejectedly. “ But how about this summer? We’ll 
probably both of us spend it in some little dark hole 
of an office, where we can’t see anything but a roof 
or a sandbank.” 

“ You’re optimistic, to say the least,” George re- 
marked, with disapproval. 

“ I confess,” Rodney said in reply, “ I’m down in 
the mouth just at this particular stage of my career. 
A fellow gets tired of pegging along at his books 
and classes, and taking checks from his father, and 
being petted by his mother, and generally acting the 
part of Spoiled Darling. He wants to get out and 
do some scrambling for himself.” 


Friendship Imperiled 153 

“ Well, don’t get gloomy. There’s a lot of time 
yet before school closes. You’ll find a job right to 
the Queen’s taste, if I’m any prophet,” consoled 
George. 

“ I’m not a bit sure that you are, Burn. But you 
mean well,” granted Rodney. 

The conversation lagged. “ Did you notice,” 
said Isabel, to fill the gap, “ how the beans have come 
up around the arbor? ” 

“ Yes, I did,” said George. “ They’re fine.” 

“ Let’s look at ’em,” suggested Rodney. 

They went over to look at the bean-plants, which 
were flourishing about the sides of the small pavilion 
at the end of the garden. “ About the first of July, 
I think,” said Isabel, “ they’ll begin to burst into 
bloom, and send out hundreds of red blossoms, and 
then our arbor will be a thing of beauty and a joy 
forever — at least till fall.” 

“ I suppose you’ll call it the bean-arbor — that’s 
such a poetic name ! ” commented George. 

“ Doesn’t the Bible say something about a lodge 
in a garden of cucumbers?” answered Isabel. 
“ This is no more plebeian than that.” 

“ Beans are honorable vegetables,” agreed Rod- 
ney, “ and this climbing kind have gorgeous flowers. 
They grow like lightning, too, and cover up a multi- 
tude of shortcomings — not to mention strings and 
wire netting.” 

“ That’s why I chose ’em,” said Isabel. “ I 
couldn’t wait for something slower and more senti- 
mental to spring up and cover the bare bones of the 
arbor.” 

“All honor to the honorable bean!” cried 


154 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

George. “ Come on, Rod, let’s give Miss Carleton 
fifteen minutes of our valuable time. We’ll rout out 
more weeds than she could dig up with those little 
white hands of hers in two hours and a half.” And 
so the garden profited by the visit of the young 
engineers. 

Isabel was beginning to feel the strain of the busy 
life which she was leading. “ I feel like a juggler 
keeping ten plates in the air at once,” she complained 
to Fanny, one evening. Isabel was getting dressed 
for dinner, and Fanny, already combed and clothed, 
was sitting on the bed, and swinging her feet. 

“What’s the matter?” asked the younger sister 
coolly. 

“ Why, there are so many things to do. Life is 
so complicated.” Isabel bent over to slip on her 
white canvas pumps. 

“ It is a sort of complicated life,” admitted Fanny. 
She went on humming a strain of the Barcarolle 
from the Tales of Hoffmann. 

“ Sometimes I feel as if I can’t stand it,” Isabel 
lamented. “ I have my studying, and my craft work, 
and the Fund, and my clothes to see to, and the gar- 
den, and all sorts of things to go to — one has to 
get a little enjoyment out of life — ” 

“ Mistress Isabel, 

Queer and quizzical, 

How does your garden grow? ” 

Fanny was chanting derisively. 

“ I don’t think much of your rhyme,” said Isabel, 
knotting her silk sash. 


Friendship Imperiled 155 

“ It’ll do,” said Fanny cheerfully. “ Let me see 
■ — ■ tum-te-tum-te-tum-te turn: — 

“ Bells of blue, 

And asters, too, 

And marigolds all in a row.” 

“ That’s too tame,” Isabel decided. “ It ought 
to be something of this sort: 

“ Daily themes, 

Reports in reams, 

And quiz-papers all in a row.” 

“ Very well, if you prefer that,” said Fanny, “ but 
this would be more to the point : 

“ Sorority teas, 

And gossiping bees, 

And picnics all in a row.” 

“ Well, as I was saying,” Isabel went on, sitting 
down on the edge of the bed beside Fanny, “ I dash 
from one thing to another till my head whirls. I go 
ranting around like a wild woman; I’d like to take 
a few weeks off, and just vegetate.” 

“ Why don’t you? ” 

“ I’d look nice, stopping in the midst of the 
semester, and slumping down in the bean-arbor to 
take life easy — wouldn’t I? ” 

“ What do you care how you’d look?” Fanny 
tucked a stray lock into place over Isabel’s ear. 

“ Anyhow,” exclaimed the older girl with a sud- 
den resolution, “ I’ll take a week-end off, and go out 
to Grammy’s.” 

“ That’s a good idea,” said Fanny. “ It would 


l$6 Isabel Carletons Friends 

give you a vacation — and the family, too,” she 
added slyly. 

“ You’re horrid, Fan,” Isabel pouted. 

“ I know I am,” laughed Fanny. u I just can’t 
help it, when you begin to get fidgety and self-con- 
scious.” She kissed her sister quickly and rather 
shamefacedly on the cheek. “ Go on out to Gram- 
my’s and become a care-free nymph of spring, or 
whatever it is you want.” 

“ I’m going to,” said Isabel, as the gong sounded 
for dinner. 

On Monday, she met Rodney coming out of the 
University Library as she was going in. They 
stopped for a moment’s conversation. “ I’m going 
out to Grandmother’s for the week-end,” announced 
Isabel happily. 

“ Oh, now,” answered Rodney crossly, “ it’s 
mean of you to run away just at the niftiest time of 
the spring. I thought we could have a picnic out 
at the University orchard. The apple-trees are in 
bloom, you know.” 

“ Well, I’ve written Grammy. And anyway, I 
want to go,” said Isabel. 

“ Then I’ll go, too,” said Rodney. 

“ All right. Come along. Why not? ” Isabel 
looked well pleased. 

“ I will if your grandmother will let me.” 

“ Of course she will, silly. She has quite a case 
on you, you know.” 

“ I’m not so sure about that; but I’ll write and 
ask if I may go out and spend Saturday.” 

“Oh, do, Rod! That would be splendid! ” 


Friendship Imperiled 

“ Perhaps she’ll let me be a warder of the 
pigs—” 

“ Or guardian of the bovine herd.” 

“ Or head-waiter for the turkeys. I’ll send a let- 
ter this afternoon.” Rodney was all enthusiasm. 
“ It’ll get to her to-morrow morning.” 

“ Call me up when you hear,” said Isabel as they 
parted. 

On Wednesday, she was called to the telephone, 
to hear that Rodney had received a letter saying 
that he might come. “ Of course,” rejoined the 
girl. “ I knew you didn’t need to ask.” 

“ You’re going out on Friday afternoon? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I’ll run out on Saturday morning — that early 
train.” 

“ You’ll have breakfast with us? ” 

“ Yes, two breakfasts, if you like. I shall be like 
a starved wolf by the time I get there.” 

“ Grandmother will see that you don’t fade away. 
Saturday morning it is, then.” 

All the rest of the week Isabel was looking for- 
ward to the day to be spent on her grandfather’s 
farm at Dalton, thirty miles away. 


CHAPTER IX 

AN EVENTLESS DAY 

I SABEL was unusually busy on Friday, and it 
was only by “ tearing,” as she expressed it, that 
she was able to get packed and dressed in time to 
take the street-car for the train. “ It costs too 
much to have a cab,” she grumbled. “ Gracious 1 
I wish we could have ’em as rashly here as we used 
to in London. It comes hard to drag one’s suit- 
case around like a porter. I’m glad that afternoon 
train has been put on. It was awkward, going at 
eight o’clock at night, or waiting till morning.” 

Fanny, who was going to the station with Isabel, 
listened absently. She was just then concerned 
about the last basket-ball game of the season, which 
was to take place at the high-school gymnasium that 
evening. Howard Sutro was to escort her, and 
there was to be dancing afterward. 

When they reached the station, they merely had 
time to buy a ticket and rush down the long covered 
platform to the train, which was snorting and puff- 
ing impatiently on the track. “ It acts as if it had 
waited for you, and was mad because it had to,” re- 
marked Fanny. 

“ It needn’t wait any longer.” Isabel gave Fanny 
a hasty caress. “ Good-by, Angel Child. Be as 
good as you can without Big Sister.” She adopted 
158 


An Eventless Day 159 

the patronizingly teasing tone which always irritated 
Fanny beyond words. 

“ I got along a year without Big Sis,” sniffed the 
younger girl; “perhaps I can manage for two or 
three days.” 

“ Don’t get into any squabbles with the other chil- 
dren,” Isabel continued, while the good looking 
young brakeman, helping her with her suit-case, cast 
an amused glance at the indignant Fanny. “ Sis- 
ter’ll bring you something when she comes home.” 

The expression on Fanny’s face was so wrathful 
that the young brakeman exploded frankly into 
laughter. “ You can come to the train alone, next 
time,” called Fanny to Isabel, who was standing 
on the platform of the car. 

The brakeman lifted the step-ladder, and swung 
himself up to the car. “ All aboard,” he shouted. 
He lifted his cap jestingly to Fanny, who turned 
away with injured dignity. 

Isabel found a seat, and looked studiously out of 
the window, because she did not want to meet the 
brakeman’s eye. She caught sight of Fanny, who 
was walking stiffly along the station platform, with- 
out looking back. Her heart smote her. “ But it’s 
so much fun, teasing Fan,” she murmured. “You 
never know just what sensitive spot in her soul you 
are going to touch. I suppose I may do it once too 
often, and hurt her feelings so that there will be 
real trouble. She’s as stubborn as Meta, when she’s 
once wrought up. I must be more considerate.” 

Isabel took out a history book, and studied her 
lesson for Monday, and ran over the week’s lessons 
in review. “ It’s a nuisance to have to drag a book 


160 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

along wherever you go, as if it were a ball-and- 
chain,” she said to herself. She cast wistful eyes 
out of the window, where the landscape was becom- 
ing more and more alluring. The woods were 
growing shadowy in the late afternoon; farm-steads 
sent up blue curling smoke, among plum-trees begin- 
ning to drop their petals, and apple-trees in full 
bloom; streams glinted among thin-leafed under- 
brush; now and then a lake reflected the clearness 
of the sky. 

Grandfather Stuart met the traveler at the sta- 
tion, and whisked her home in his new Ford car, 
just in time for supper. There was a great deal of 
laughing and chatting, for Mr. and Mrs. Stuart 
always wanted to know about everything that con- 
cerned the life of their eldest (and, perhaps, dear- 
est) grandchild. “ Grampy and Grammy are the 
most obliging listeners,” Isabel was wont to say. 
“ Your smallest remark about your troubles and suc- 
cesses they take in as if it were to settle the fate of 
nations. And they never let you know how much 
you bore them.” 

After supper, she played checkers with Grand- 
father, who kept up from visit to visit a very elab- 
orate record of games won and lost. There was 
spirited rivalry on this particular evening, and the 
results were solemnly entered in a note-book. As 
the dusk drew on, the three people sat out on the 
porch in the cool air. They could hear the frogs 
croaking in the meadows, and the guinea-hens mut- 
tering and clucking in the trees at the foot of the 
garden, where they had settled themselves for the 
night. 


An Eventless Day 161 

Out in the cow-barns the electric lights were on — 
for Grandfather had a very modern equipment — 
and Isabel could see the forms of the hired men as 
they passed to and fro, doing the evening’s “ chores.” 
The whir-r-r of the separator sounded dully from 
the milk-house. 

Isabel was hoping fervently for good weather on 
Saturday. “ It seems damp, don’t you think? ” she 
said anxiously. “ Do you think it’s going to rain, 
Grampy? ” 

“ H-mm, no, I don’t think so.” Mr. Stuart 
studied the sky for a moment. “ It’s always a little 
damp in the evening at this season.” 

“ There’s a white mist over the far meadow,” 
ventured Isabel again. 

“ Oh, well, that’s always there. The land’s 
pretty low in that spot.” 

Grandmother began to shiver, and they were all 
glad to go inside. There was more talk, and then 
Isabel went to bed. She was always extraordinarily 
sleepy on the first night in the country. “ Oh, if it’s 
only a nice day to-morrow ! ” was her last thought 
as she dropped asleep. 

She was awakened by her grandmother, tapping 
at her door, and pushing it open. Mrs. Stuart came 
to the side of the bed with a tray on which were a 
cup of chocolate and two graham crackers. “ I 
couldn’t have you start off for the station without a 
bite and a sup,” she said. 

“ I told Rod not to have any breakfast till he 
came,” hesitated Isabel. “ It doesn’t seem fair for 
me — ” 

“ This isn’t breakfast,” said the crafty grand- 


162 Isabel Carletons Friends 

mother; “ it’s only a swallow — which doesn’t make 
a summer. Rodney will probably have something 
to eat at the station in Jefferson.” 

The sun was shining in through the white muslin 
curtains, and falling in a brilliant square on the coun- 
terpane of the four-poster bed. “ It’s a grand day, 
isn’t it? ” exulted Isabel as she drank the chocolate 
luxuriously. 

“ Yes, all that you could ask.” 

Isabel was soon up, and dressing hastily. She 
was just buttoning her gray spats over her stout ties 
when she heard the honk of the car. She ran down 
stairs, pinning on her hat as she went. 

“ What a sun ! and what a blueness ! ” cried the 
girl, as her grandfather sped the car out of the yard. 

They arrived at the station only a few moments 
before the train from Jefferson came in. Rodney 
stepped down upon the platform, his face very happy 
and lighted with anticipation. 

Greetings over, they all went out to where the 
automobile was standing. “You drive, Rodney,” 
said Mr. Stuart, as they got into the machine. “ I 
know you young chaps like it; I only do it out of a 
sense of duty.” 

“ Glad to, sir.” Rodney took the wheel with an 
easy grasp. 

There was very little said on the way home. 
Breakfast was being put on the table when they ar- 
rived. “ I’m as ravenous as a tiger,” exclaimed 
Rodney. “ Don’t come near me with those biscuits, 
or I may snap them up, plate and all, and that 
wouldn’t be a nice beginning.” 

“ I like to have my guests hungry, and then they’re 


An Eventless Day 163 

not too fussy about what they get,” smiled Mrs. 
Stuart. 

“They never get anything here that isn’t per- 
fectly sa-lu-bri-ous,” Isabel remonstrated. “ I don’t 
know what the word means, but it sounds awfully 
complimentary. When I’m here, I eat in a way that 
would amaze the hired men. I’m glad they have 
their own dining room, and don’t have to see me 
make inroads on the food.” 

They all sat down. The coffee was perfect, the 
omelette with parsley was thick and savory and 
plentiful, the fried potatoes were crisp and brown; 
doughnuts sat temptingly at the side of the table, 
ready for any one who couldn’t eat another bite of 
anything else. 

“ It certainly is great to take time to eat, and not 
have to make tracks for an eight o’clock,” said Rod- 
ney, when the leisurely meal was over. “ Can’t we 
help with the dishes? ” 

“ Mrs. McCauley has to wash and scald the milk- 
cans,” answered Mrs. Stuart, “ and so I’m going to 
look after the dishes. You may help if you want 
to.” 

“ We do,” shouted Rodney and Isabel, beginning 
to pick up the dishes and carry them to the kitchen. 
The process of dish-washing was soon going on at 
a lively rate. 

“ Goodness ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, “ you two 
people wipe the dishes so fast that I can’t begin to 
keep up with you.” 

“ That’s where our trained minds get in their 
licks,” said Rodney. “ Nothing like an engineering 
laboratory as training for skill with the dish-towel.” 


164 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“ Education should be a preparation for life,” 
chuckled Isabel. 

“ Yes. By the time I’ve had four years in the 
Engineering School, I ought to be able to wash and 
wipe dishes with neatness and dispatch,” replied the 
young man, as he gingerly tried to lift a platter out 
of the hot water. “ Whew ! I can’t get that out ! ” 
He flapped his hand to cool it. 

“ My stars ! I wonder why men have such deli- 
cate fingers. They’re worse than cats, if anything is 
the least bit hot.” Isabel took the platter from the 
water, and swirled her towel ostentatiously over its 
smooth blue sides. 

“ Women are so patronizing,” complained Rod- 
ney, standing with his dish-towel limp in his hands. 
“ If they happen to be able to do a thing, they act 
so set up about it that you feel as if you could crawl 
into a peanut shell. You never have the sense to 
think of all the wonderful things you can do your- 
self. You just think of the thing that they’re crow- 
ing over you for.” 

“ Then you don’t show very good sense,” re- 
sponded Isabel coolly, as she continued to fish 
saucers and silverware out of the hot rinsing-water. 
“ Men are just like children. If they — ” 

“ Here, here,” broke in Mrs. Stuart, looking 
alarmed. “ We can’t have any discussions that may 
carry us too far, and do damage to our friend- 
ship.” 

“ You don’t know our friendship,” Rodney re- 
assured her. “ That’s discussion-proof. We’ve 
given it many a hard test.” 

“ I dare say you have.” Mrs. Stuart spoke in a 


An Eventless Day 165 

relieved way. “ Well, now, I’ll finish up these tins 
and things. You two run along and enjoy the out- 
of-doors.” 

“ We don’t need to be pushed out.” Isabel gave 
Mrs. Stuart a hug, dish-cloth and all. “ Don’t ex- 
pect us back till we come. We’re going to ramble 
about when we feel like it, and sit down and rest 
when we feel like it, and have the laziest day that 
any hard-working college grinds ever had.” 

Isabel went up to her room to wash her hands, and 
put a net over her hair. She stopped to make the 
bed, which had been airing since she had hurried 
away to the station. She put on her green-and-white 
jersey, and powdered her nose hastily, deciding at 
the same time not to wear a hat. 

When she came down, Rodney, with his hands in 
his pockets, was whistling on the side porch. They 
started off together without saying a word. 

They went past the big oak trees in the yard, and 
out to the back of the house. A small fluffy gray 
kitten dashed into the shelter of the wood-pile when 
it saw the strangers approaching. “ Oh, you sweet 
thing!” cried Isabel. “Get it for me, Rod. I 
wonder why Grammy didn’t tell me there were kit- 
tens? ” 

“ She ought to have a bulletin board announcing 
social events,” murmured the boy, as he got down 
on his knees and fumbled around under the wood for 
the shrinking ball of fluff. He brought it out pro- 
testing with futile clawings and sputterings. “ Well, 
well, you are a funny little beggar, aren’t you? ” he 
laughed as he handed the tiny creature over to 
Isabel. 


1 66 Isabel Carletons Friends 

She took it and snuggled it up against her cheek, 
talking to it in baby-talk, — “ itty tootsy tunning 
sweety,” and other endearments. It cuddled 
against her chin and purr-purred contentedly. “ I 
could stay here all day and fuss over the little thing,” 
said Isabel apologetically. 

She sat down on the chopping-block, and put the 
kitten into her lap, while Rodney tantalized it with 
a grass-blade. It put out a paw and reached dain- 
tily for the grass. The mother cat came presently 
with anxious and interrogative purrrr-meaouw y s to 
see what had happened to her baby. 

“ I suppose I’ve got to give it up,” said Isabel 
to the cat. “ Did you think I was going to kidnap 
it?” 

“Oughtn’t the word to be cat-nap? )} suggested 
Rodney. “ You could kidnap a kid, but you’d have 
to cat-nap a cat, wouldn’t you? ” 

“ I could kit-nap a kit, I suppose,” Isabel replied, 
restoring the child to its mother. “ Come on. 
Let’s look at the chickens.” 

The young chickens were scuttling and “ yirp-ing ” 
about in the grass, as if they found the world a very 
bewildering place. The mother-hen stuck her red 
head out between the slats of her coop and admon- 
ished the rash younglings with nervous clucks. 

“ She acts just like Mrs. Rausch with her two 
babies,” laughed Isabel. “ She is always clucking 
around in the self-same way.” 

“ She has the same wild eye and the same sharp 
beak,” admitted Rodney. “ I never thought of it 
before.” 

“ I’d be wild-eyed, too, if I had three youngsters 


An Eventless Day ibj 

to look after,” said Isabel. “ Worse than the hen, 
I am sure.” 

They went on through the vegetable garden, 
where the beans were sprouting, with heart-shaped 
leaves, and where the keen blades of the onions were 
piercing the dark earth. Then Rodney opened the 
gate into the orchard. 

“Oh, what a day! what a day!” cried Isabel, 
pausing at the gate. 

“ It’s a day of glory, all right,” rejoined Rodney. 
“ Listen ! that’s a meadow lark.” 

“What a fresh note. It’s like spring itself! 
And there’s an oriole — like a flash of fire.” 

They went forward into the orchard. The low 
crooked trees stretched away in rows, bearing the 
full bloom of the season. 

“ It’s a wonderland of flowers, isn’t it? ” Rod- 
ney spoke in a subdued tone, as if he had no words 
for what he felt. 

“ Dreamland,” said Isabel. They walked silently 
on down the avenues of bloom. On the grass were 
the first fallen petals. The blossoms spread to their 
fullest, while at the ends of the branches were the 
round red buds enclosed by furry young leaves. 

The odors which mingled with the wind were 
elusive and delightful. Isabel held up her arms to 
the swaying boughs. “ It seems as if one couldn’t 
love them enough,” she said to herself — “ as if 
they would always keep just out of reach.” The 
petals dripping slowly from the trees caught on her 
hair, and on the lace of her collar. Rodney shook 
a big branch, and laughed to see the showers of 
white-and-pink that fell on Isabel’s shoulders. 


1 68 Isabel Carletons Friends 

They seemed very far away from any one else. 
Isabel was all at once aware that Rodney was say- 
ing nothing, but that he was looking at her intently. 
He stood with his arm along the bough, his hazel 
eyes fixed on her with an eager affectionate gaze, as 
if he had forgotten everything in the world but her. 
Speech died away, and she became transfixed, look- 
ing back at him with eyes that were clear and 
startled, as if he had come upon her suddenly under 
the apple-trees. For a long minute the eloquent in- 
terval lasted, and in that time they had said more 
to each other than they could have said with lan- 
guage during the whole sun-lighted spring day. 
The moment passed, leaving a warm feeling of un- 
derstanding which went with them in all the remain- 
der of their wanderings. 

“ I’m sure the violets are out, in the meadow,” 
said Isabel at last. She flushed, and her eyes re- 
membered to be shy. 

Rodney came back to his surroundings. “ There 
must be bushels,” he said vaguely. “ Shall we go 
on r 

On the slope beyond the orchard they found vio- 
lets, purple and long-stemmed, garlanding the grass. 
On their knees, the two young people, with very 
little to say, gathered the flowers and leaves, and 
made a nosegay, which Isabel carried as they went 
on toward the stream. Willows and thin-leafed 
poplars edged the river. There was a log bridge, 
on the edge of which the companions seated them- 
selves, with their feet hanging down over the water. 
It was fascinating to watch the sliding current. 
The red and white pebbles and the darting fish 


An Eventless Day 169 

seemed always changing shape and color as the 
stream flowed over them. 

Isabel sighed. “ I feel like a different being 
from the one who has been ranting around like 
Bosco the Wild Girl for the last few weeks. I got 
so that I felt I couldn’t stand it a minute longer. I 
don’t see why it’s necessary to let one’s life get so 
cluttered up. Do you? ” 

“ It’s a lot more interesting if it’s full of activ- 
ity,” said Rodney. “ What do you think you’d 
make of it if you lived off on the Dakota plains or 
up on a mountain somewhere, where there was noth- 
ing going on at all, and nothing to do but the dishes, 
day after day?” 

“ I’ve sometimes thought I’d like to try it,” Isa- 
bel answered. “ One would get so she either hated 
the dishes or loved ’em. Oh, Rod! don’t you think 
a summer in the mountains would be too perfectly 
super-glubious for anything?” 

“Oh, a summer in the mountains — yes,” Rod- 
ney replied almost gloomily. “ I’d dance like a 
dervish if I thought I’d have a chance to spend a 
summer in the real mountains — I shouldn’t care if 
I had to work till I dropped.” 

“ I’d love it, too,” Isabel said, playing with the 
violets in her lap. She was thinking that if she 
could be in the mountains with a few nice agreeable 
people, and Rodney were among them, what an ideal 
time she could have. She sighed again, reflecting 
that things as good as that weren’t likely to happen. 
If she should go to visit Meta, off there in the West 
somewhere, Rodney would be hundreds of miles 
away, learning to be a practical engineer. 


170 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“ Maybe we’ll manage it sometime,” said Rodney, 
as if he had followed her thought. She started, and 
dropped some of the violets into the water. 

Rodney was watching the minnows glinting in the 
ripples. “ One great year we’ve had, anyway — 
eh, Isabel?” He gave her a sidelong glance. 
“ It’s been pretty scrumptious since that day we got 
things untangled, out at Kegonsah.” 

“ It didn’t seem as if we’d ever get them straight- 
ened out, did it? ” the girl replied with a retrospec- 
tive frown. 

“ Oh, I sort of had faith that we should. Things 
can’t stay messed up forever. Not if people — 
really — ” 

His voice trailed off. He leaned forward to in- 
spect a crab scuttling backward among the stones. 

“ N-no, I suppose not,” Isabel agreed. “ There’s 
a Something down underneath, that untangles our 
affairs, no matter what a confusion we get them 
into.” 

“ We should be thankful for that,” said Rodney 
fervently. After a few minutes, he went on, “ I’ve 
always felt a little guilty — about Herb.” 

“ Oh — why?” 

“ Well, you know, you and Herb were awfully 
congenial — you liked the same things ; he under- 
stood you better than I do — your thoughts and his 
kind-of ran along the same lines.” 

Isabel looked at him with meditative gray eyes. 
“ Of course, in a way, that’s true,” she answered. 
Rodney winced. She did not seem to notice. “ But 
that isn’t everything,” she added. 

“ No. But it’s a good deal. I felt that he had 


An Eventless Day jyi 

a right to your society. You and he could have 
done a great deal for each other, you know.” 

“ But — but he said he wasn’t going to be satis- 
fied to be — a nice comfortable friend,” explained 
Isabel, blushing. She had never told Rodney exactly 
what Herbert Barry had said to her that day last 
fall in the French section of the Library. “ He said 
that none of us would be satisfied.” 

“ I guess he was right. Herb has a mighty fine 
instinct about things. He’s a splendid fellow. 
And this is a great experience he’s having now.” 

“ Yes. And I hope he will soon be safely back.” 
Isabel always expected, from day to day, to hear 
that the war was at an end. 

For many minutes the two friends sat on the log 
bridge, talking quietly, with long pauses. The 
stream bubbled endlessly by, under their feet, the 
willows bowed in the breeze, the meadow larks called 
incessantly through the fields. It seemed to Isabel 
that she had never been calmer or happier or more 
rested. 

After a while they roused themselves, and started 
back by way of the woodlot, where hickory and 
oak and poplar trees rose thickly out of the under- 
brush. Rodney broke off sprays of dogwood as 
they walked, and Isabel gathered the creamy man- 
drake blooms, and pink-edged trilliums. They loi- 
tered in the path, and watched the squirrels in the 
trees, and a hawk laboriously building a nest. A 
crawling turtle distracted them from their course. 

In the pasture behind the barn, they lingered to 
enjoy the antics of a colt, and the stately struttings 
of a peacock, which appeared to be rapt in a solemn 


172 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

state of self-admiration. With his great tail spread 
to the sun, he promenaded to and fro upon the 
grass, showing off to the best advantage the blue and 
green and bronze of his feathers; and never losing 
his dignity, even when the wind upon his expanse 
of plumage threatened to capsize him. 

“Magnificent creature!” said Isabel. “I don’t 
care how vain you are. You are a lovely sight, and 
no mistake.” 

“ Another picture to take home with us,” com- 
mented Rodney. 

By the time the flowers were revived and ar- 
ranged, and hands were washed, lunch was on the 
table. “ Our thoughts may be poetic, but our appe- 
tites aren’t,” Isabel confessed. “ I shall want a 
second helping of everything.” 

After luncheon was over, Rodney called to the 
others from the doorway, u Come on, all. I’m go- 
ing to take your pictures.” He had brought out his 
camera from the hall, where he had left it when he 
arrived. 

“ Oh, dear,” cried Mrs. Stuart, — “ and me with 
this gingham housedress on ! ” 

u Wait, Rodney,” said Mr. Stuart, laughing, 
“ until she has put on her new purple silk, and a 
chain and breast-pin or two.” 

u I want both of you just as you are,” said Rod- 
ney. “ Come out where the light is good, and get 
taken.” 

First he took Grandfather and Grandmother sit- 
ting on a rustic bench, and Isabel standing beside 
them; then all three standing before the syringa 
bush, which was white with blossoms. Isabel in- 


i73 


An Eventless Day 

sisted on having the kitte n in her arms. Grandfa- 
ther, with his white beard, and his old felt hat droop- 
ing in his hand, looked like a very honorable and 
prosperous farmer. 

44 I don’t think I adorn a photograph very much,” 
he said whimsically. 44 I never was much of an or- 
nament, but there was a time when I’d pass for one 
a good deal better than I do now.” 

“ Oh, Grampy,” exclaimed Isabel, “ let Rod see 
the pictures of you when you came out of the Civil 
War. You were an ornament then. You’ve never 
seen ’em, have you, Rod?” 

44 No, I haven’t, but I’d like to, very much,” said 
Rodney, putting his camera on the porch. 44 May I, 
Mr. Stuart? ” 

“ Why, if you want to.” The old gentleman 
looked pleased. “ Let’s see, where are those pic- 
tures, Mother? You have them hidden away some- 
where.” 

44 They’re in the bureau drawer, in the west bed- 
room.” 

44 Can’t I get them? ” said Isabel. 

44 No, I’ll go.” Mrs. Stuart never liked to have 
any person other than herself lay a finger on those 
pictures. She went into the house, and came back 
with two old card photographs and a daguerreotype. 
She looked long at them herself, and then put them 
reluctantly into Isabel’s hand. 

44 How splendid he looks! ” murmured the girl, 
gazing at the portrait of the handsome young man, — 
with the very new mustache, — in the uniform of 
the Northern soldier. 

44 That was taken in Washington, on my way 


174 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

home,” said the old man, indicating the most strik- 
ing of the pictures. “ I wasn’t as old as you are, 
Rodney.” 

“Goodness! he looks older,” said Isabel. But 
that was because it was so hard to think of Grand- 
father as being as young as Rodney. He seemed 
so very ancient now. Could Rodney ever be bent 
and wrinkled, with a white beard and thin white 
hair? she wondered. 

“ And you were in the Civil War! ” Rodney was 
saying. Of course he had known it; but wars, until 
these last few months, had seemed something impos- 
sible and prehistoric. He was looking over Isabel’s 
shoulders at the portraits. 

“ You were in battle. Oh, Grampy, do you think 
you — ” She was going to say, ever killed any one? 
But a look in her grandmother’s eyes made her stop. 
What an awful question to ask a man. But men in 
battle did kill other men. That was what they 
were there for ! 

Rodney seemed fascinated by the pictures. He 
took them and held them a long time. “ How dif- 
ferent the khaki looks,” he said. “ It’s more prac- 
tical, but this is more picturesque.” And then he 
said in an undertone, “ Well, they do come back.” 

“ Yes, they do,” said the old man, “ but — ” 

Isabel felt a cold foreboding. The war which 
had seemed to be just a troublesome affair among a 
few European nations was creeping closer and closer, 
like some relentless beast, and before long it would 
surely spring upon America. 

“ Can’t they settle things in any other way? ” she 
cried, sick at heart. 


An Eventless Day 

“They think they can’t.” Grandfather’s face 
was very grave. N 

Isabel put her arms around Mr. Stuart’s neck. 
“ Grampy, you’re lovely in the pictures,” she said, 
“ with your pink cheeks and the gilt buttons on your 
coat, but I like you just as you are.” She gave him 
a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “ Let’s forget, for to- 
day, anyway, that there ever were any wars, or that 
there are ever going to be any ! ” 

“ Yes, that’s wisest,” said Mrs. Stuart, almost 
sadly. She took the pictures, and went into the 
house to put them away. 

Grandfather went thoughtfully away to superin- 
tend some work on the place. Isabel lay for a long 
time in the hammock, Grandmother sat near in a 
low chair, sewing, and Rodney stretched himself out 
in a canvas chair. Sometimes they talked of cheer- 
ful things, and sometimes they were silent for long 
minutes together. It was a quiet, dreamy, happy 
afternoon, with nothing to mar its placidity. 

After dinner, Isabel and Mr. Stuart took Rodney 
to the station. Grandfather stayed in the automo- 
bile while Isabel went to see Rodney off. As the 
two stood on the platform, Rodney said, “ It’s been 
a wonderful little outing for me. I feel somehow as 
if it had been an event — and not a single thing has 
happened all day.” 

“ That’s just what I’ve loved about it,” answered 
Isabel — “ we didn’t have to depend on things hap- 
pening. It was the quietness — nothing to rush 
around for, you know — that made me happy.” 
When she was with Rodney, she thought, she did not 
feel as if she needed exciting events to interest her. 


176 Isabel Carletons Friends 

They always had plenty to talk about, and yet they 
didn’t have to talk unless they wanted to. 

“ It’s been perfect, for me,” said Rodney, as the 
train came rushing in. He squeezed her hand, 
swung himself up to the car step, and disappeared 
into the still spring night. 

Isabel, on the seat with Grandfather, was watch- 
ing the pale green streak of sky above the horizon, 
as it faded into blue. From time to time she whis- 
pered to herself, “ What a heavenly dayl ” 


CHAPTER X 

THE DOWNFALL OF CHINA 

TV/TETA HOUSTON lived in two large cheerful 
rooms, charmingly furnished, not far from 
the Carleton home. She and Isabel often ran back 
and forth to see each other. On the Tuesday after 
her return from the farm, Isabel was in Meta’s bed- 
room; and Meta, refreshing her costume after sev- 
eral hours of study, was going over the problem of 
her relation to her father, a subject which the girls 
had several times discussed. 

Isabel stood looking at the picture on Meta’s 
dresser — that of a dark distinguished-looking man 
of a rugged somewhat reckless type. The spirited 
lift of the head which she had so often admired in 
Meta was there in the picture; and, too, the flashing 
eye, the proud curl of the lip. “ He’s a splendid- 
looking man, isn’t he? ” said Isabel. 

“Yes, he is,” answered Meta. “You’d notice 
him anywhere. I’ve always admired him tremen- 
dously.” 

“ I think he’s nice,” ventured Isabel. 

“ He may be here in Jefferson for a few days be- 
fore school closes,” said the other girl, “ and then 
you can see him. I’m going to tell him then to 
begin to plan for my being with him.” 

“ But he’s off in British Columbia so much of the 
1 77 


178 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

time, — and other wild places, — even Alaska. You 
don’t want to stay there, do you? ” Isabel had gone 
over all of this before. 

“ No, frankly, I don’t.” Meta was putting on a 
fresh frilled collar from a pile in her top dresser 
drawer. “ It’s beautiful in the West. I used to 
think I couldn’t be happy anywhere else; but 
now — ” 

“Yes? ” said Isabel encouragingly. She was still 
staring at Mr. Houston’s picture. 

“ My interests — I care for things here,” said 
Meta lamely. Isabel caught a glimpse of the strug- 
gle in her mind. 

“ It would be a hardship to go and live in some 
little lumbering camp, six months of the year, and 
spending the rest of the time scooting about between 
Helena and Seattle — or Sitka.” 

“ Yes, it would; but I’ve pretty well made up my 
mind that that’s the thing to do.” 

“ Very well, Meta. It’s your own life that you’re 
dealing with.” Isabel spoke with resignation. 

“You’ll come and visit me, Izzy-Wizzy? ” 
Meta turned to look anxiously at her friend. 

“ Why, I’d love to. But of course the time that 
I’m free to go will probably be when you are travel- 
ing about.” 

“ Then you’ll have to travel with me.” Meta’s 
face was clouded. 

“ That would be exciting. I never get tired of 
traveling.” Isabel was wondering where she was 
to get the money to go about with Meta. Presently 
she said, “ I really must go home, now, or make a 
start, anyway. Come on and go a piece with me.” 


The Downfall of China 179 

They went down the stairs, Meta with her hand 
on Isabel’s shoulder. 

On the hall table lay two or three letters. “ Ah! 
one for me,” said Meta. “ From father! ” 

She stopped on the porch to read it. “ Excuse 
me, won’t you, while I take a look at it? ” she said 
carelessly. 

“ Oh, of course,” responded Isabel. 

Meta tore open the envelope, and Isabel stood 
looking absently through the half-budded vines, at 
some workmen laying a new concrete sidewalk. 
The smell of the melted tar was acrid and unpleas- 
ant. Isabel was thinking about a fraternity dance 
which she was going to with Rodney. 

An exclamation from Meta made Isabel turn 
sharply. The other girl’s face was flushed and 
startled. She was reading the letter hastily, rustling 
through the pages with feverish hands. “ Oh ! ” 
she cried again, with an angry intonation. 

“ What is it?” asked Isabel, suspecting disaster. 

Meta looked up with a scared, wrathful counte- 
nance. She was more the barbaric princess than 
she had been for a year. There were tears of fury 
in her eyes. “ How dare he do such a thing! ” she 
burst out in a rage. 

“ What? what?” 

Meta was oblivious to her friend’s inquiries. 
“ It’s unkind! It’s horrible! I won’t have it,” she 
was going on. 

“ Meta, dear, do tell me what’s the matter.” 
Isabel took the angry young woman by the elbow, 
and stared into her face. 

“He’s — he says — he’s going to be married!” 


i8o Isabel Garletoris Friends 

There was a stunned silence; and then Isabel said 
weakly, “ Well, that’s not so very terrible. Other 
people have done it.” 

“ He never considered me.” Meta held the let- 
ter tightly in her clenched hand. 

“He wasn’t where he could, was he?” Isabel 
was prepared to defend Mr. Houston’s romantic be- 
havior. 

“ He might have, anyway,” said Meta in a stran- 
gled voice. “ He could have come here, or I could 
have gone there.” 

“ I don’t know why you should,” retorted Isabel 
with some asperity. “ He has his own life to live.” 
Isabel was a great advocate of individual freedom. 

“There you are, sticking up for him. He has 
no right to do such a thing,” Meta went on hys- 
terically. “ I’ll make him stop.” 

“Why, you can’t — you mustn’t,” said Isabel in 
dismay. She drew Meta to the further end of the 
porch. “ Don’t talk so loud.” 

“ I don’t see why I mustn’t.” Meta was becom- 
ing sullen. 

“ He knows his own affairs,” said Isabel. “ And 
think of the woman — how she would feel.” 

“Yes, I am thinking of her. I suppose she’s 
some dreadful person that he — we — will be 
ashamed of.” The girl was very bitter. 

“ You don’t seem like yourself,” said Isabel in 
despair. “ Your father is not the sort of man who 
would marry a dreadful person.” 

Meta was a trifle subdued by her friend’s disap- 
proval. “ Well, anyway,” she said, her lip trem- 
bling, “ I should think he’d have more consideration, 


The Downfall of China 1 8 1 

when I was prepared to give up everything — all my 
ambitions — and — and other things, too, and sac- 
rifice myself by making his life more agreeable — ” 

“ Oho! ” thought Isabel. “ She feels injured be- 
cause she can’t be a martyr. I should think,” she 
said aloud, “ that you’d be glad you don’t have to.” 

“ Isabel Carleton, I didn’t think you’d be so selfish 
— or at least want me to be. I should think that 
you’d want me to sacrifice myself for my father.” 

“ Well, I was only rejoicing that you’re relieved 
of the necessity of doing it.” Isabel was smiling 
behind Meta’s back. “ It was just as noble of you, 
even if you didn’t have to.” 

Something in her tone made Meta turn and say, 
“ I believe you’re making light of the whole thing. 
I am certainly surprised that you should be so — so 
frivolous.” 

“ I think you’ll take it more calmly after you’ve 
thought it over,” said Isabel quietly. “ I really 
must go on home. Now, promise me, Meta, that 
you won’t write to your father until you’ve had 
chance to recover a little.” 

“ I shan’t promise,” sulked Meta. “ I shall tell 
him exactly what I think.” 

“ Oh, no, you won’t. You’ll be more polite.” 

“ One can’t be polite when one’s feelings are so 
terribly hurt.” 

“ One needn’t have hurt feelings.” 

“ That’s a nice thing for you to say — as sensi- 
tive as you are.” 

“ Well, promise me, Meta.” 

“ No, I won’t promise.” 

“ All right,” sighed Isabel. She had thought 


182 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

that Meta was getting over being hard and proud 
and unreasonable. But it seemed that she wasn’t. 
“ Good-by,” said the younger girl, grieved at Meta’s 
uncompromising attitude. 

“ Good-by.” 

Isabel left Meta sitting on a bench in the corner 
of the porch, her eyes cold and hard. “ What do 
you think about it, mother?” she asked, when she 
had told Mrs. Carleton what had occurred. 

“ I can see how it would be a shock to her,” said 
Mrs. Carleton. 

“ It seems almost,” said Isabel meditatively, “ as 
if she felt insulted because she isn’t going to have a 
chance to make a martyr of herself. It’s queer, 
isn’t it, what notions people get?” 

“ I suppose that down under her consciousness she 
is aggrieved because she is cheated out of doing 
something that she had persuaded herself was noble 
and grand. We do get dreadfully self-righteous, 
without knowing it.” 

“ I can see that that’s true. And anyway, I don’t 
believe Mr. Houston would ever have consented to 
accept her sacrifice, as she calls it.” 

“Nor I. And I’m glad that the poor man has 
some one to be a companion to him, who doesn’t 
make him feel that she is giving up a career to do it.” 

“ Meta’s sure that she’s an unsuitable person — 
the woman he’s going to marry, I mean,” reported 
Isabel. 

“ I don’t see why she need be,” answered Mrs. 
Carleton. “ She knows well enough, if she stops to 
think, that her father is a man who has seen a good 


The Downfall of China 183 

deal of the world, and is likely to judge people 
fairly well.” 

“ Yes, of course. That’s just what I think.” 

“ And I don’t see,” Mrs. Carleton went on, “ why 
we need to assume that something is all wrong until 
we’ve had a chance to look into it, and see how much 
of it is all right.” 

“ I suppose it’s partly the idea of having a step- 
mother,” Isabel remarked. 

“ I always thought that a silly prejudice, too,” 
said Mrs. Carleton decidedly. “ Most step-moth- 
ers have the kindest intentions toward their hus- 
band’s children. The children ought to give them 
a chance, anyway, instead of starting in to make 
things as hard as they can.” 

“ Y-yes. Only I’m glad I don’t have to learn to 
love a step-mother,” Isabel replied. 

“ You could, and you would.” Mrs. Carleton 
smiled at her daughter. “ And so will Meta, I feel 
sure.” 

“ I’d like to see you make her think so,” groaned 
Isabel. “ She’s as mad as a hornet at this stage of 
the game.” 

“Well, the game isn’t over yet,” answered the 
lady philosophically. 

Celia had been talking about using a part of her 
small monthly allowance, to purchase a globe and 
some gold-fish, for which she had long yearned. 
One day she met Isabel at the door with the globe 
held in her two small hands, and the fish whisking 
triumphantly about inside. 


184 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“ See what I have, Izzy-Wizzy,” she shouted. 
“ I just couldn’t wait to show ’em to you. Aren’t 
they perfectly lovely, Isabel?” 

“ Yes, they are.” Isabel, properly enthusiastic, 
bent over to look at the bright creatures swirling 
through their narrow room. “ I adore that won- 
derful gold and orange color that they seem to wear 
so carelessly.” 

“ I love ’em,” said Celia. “ Here, hold the jar, 
won’t you, Sister Dear? I want to show you some- 
thing else.” 

Isabel took the jar and carried it into the sitting- 
room. Celia pulled a round tin box from her apron 
pocket. u There’s some awful funny food for ’em 
in here,” she explained. “ Shall we feed the dear 
little things? ” 

“ Oh, yes, let’s. But it says on the box not to 
feed them too much.” 

Celia took a pinch of the food between her finger 
and thumb, and dropped it into the bowl. The 
gaping mouths of the fish snatched at the floating 
bits. 

The little girl laughed delightedly. “ I’m going 
to have the grandest time, having gold-fish belong to 
me,” she crowed. “ Now, where’ll we put ’em, 
Goldilocks? ” 

Isabel looked about. “ I think they’ll look fine, 
right here on this little mahogany sewing-table of 
mother’s.” She set the globe in the middle of the 
stand. “ See. The sun shines right on ’em and 
makes ’em look like real gold.” 

“ Oh, that’s grander than ever, Isabel.” 

Isabel, from her association with Miss Meade, 


The Downfall of China 185 

and her work in the Arts rooms at college, was ac- 
quiring a decided taste for color effects. “ Oh, I 
know ! ” she cried. She brought a bit of Chinese 
embroidery with touches of orange, and put it under 
the bowl. And then she lifted from the mantel the 
vase which Rodney had given her at the rummage 
sale. It was full of blue “ bachelor’s buttons.” 
“Isn’t that a picture?” She stood off, admiring 
the effect. 

“ It’s nice, but I like the fish best,” said Celia, 
watching the darting gleams in the bowl. She was 
not intensely interested in color schemes. 

Mrs. Carleton, who had already exhausted her 
vocabulary upon the fish, called from the hall that 
she was running over to Mrs. Lenner’s, and that 
every one else was out. 

“ All right, mother, I’ll look after Celia,” said 
Isabel in return. 

There was a gown to be pressed for the fraternity 
dance which she was going to, and she made ready 
the ironing board and the electric iron in the kitchen. 
Celia brought a book and cuddled into Melissy’s 
rocking-chair. Isabel pressed the dress, and took it 
up the back stairs to her room. Then when she 
came down, she thought, “ While my iron is hot, I 
might as well press out that center-piece that got 
mussed in the drawer. Mother wants to use it.” 

She went into the dining room to get the piece of 
linen. As she passed the door which led into the 
sitting-room, she looked toward the stand where the 
gold fish were so artistically ensconced. A big gray 
shadow dashed from the table; there was a splash, 
a crash of shattering glass. 


1 86 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“ Bobo, you terrible cat! ” shrieked Isabel. 

Bobo had fled under the sofa with his victim, while 
the other gold-fish flopped wildly amid the streams 
of water on the rug. 

Celia rushed in, screaming, “ Oh, my darling 
fish ! ” 

Isabel was on her knees beside the sofa, reaching 
under it for the cat, who was growling fiercely over 
his prey. Isabel seized him by one white paw, and 
dragged him forth, still clutching in his claws the 
bright body of the fish. The cat’s ears were laid 
back, and his eyes were gleaming green with disap- 
pointment and wrath. 

“ You bad beast! ” Isabel hissed at him. 

“ Is it dead, Izzy-Wizzy?” sobbed Celia. 

“ It’s gone. Oh, dear, dear ! ” Isabel replied in 
great distress for Little Sister. Celia was howling 
dismally. “ Pick up the other little fellow,” said 
Isabel with as much calmness as she could command. 
She rose from her knees, distracted with the muss 
on the floor, the wails of Celia, and the guilt of the 
cowering Bobo. 

Not till then did she understand that the orange- 
colored vase was lying in fragments among the moist 
wreckage on the floor. The flowers were draggled 
and prone ; the lovely gleams of color were scattered 
like sunbeams over the sodden rug. She gave a cry 
which mingled with the sobs of Celia. “ Oh, my 
lovely vase ! ” 

But even then she remembered that she must do 
something to save the fish in Celia’s hand. With a 
gulp of self-control, she ran to the kitchen, half 
filled a china bowl with water, and brought it back. 


The Downfall of China 187 

She set it on a chair, and Celia slipped the fish into 
it, where the little creature wriggled about cheer- 
fully, quite forgetting its perilous adventure. 

“ Aw, the poor little fish-wishy,” Celia was repeat- 
ing as a kind of refrain over the dead fish. She took 
it clammily into her palm. 

Isabel rushed at Bobo, who had retreated behind 
the table, and was glaring in frustrated savagery at 
the two girls. She boxed his ears soundly. He 
tore out of the room, his tail big, his body bristling 
with injured-innocence and rage. 

Isabel threw herself into a chair, put her head 
down on the table, and cried. It seemed as if the 
vase had stood, in some mysterious way, for that 
glorious autumn afternoon in which she and Rodney 
had made up at Lake Kegonsah, after the long 
wretchedness of misunderstanding. It had meant 
so much that was precious, but that could not be 
expressed. Its bright rich color was a symbol. 
Isabel reflected, weeping, that it could scarcely be 
duplicated, and if it could, no other vase would ever 
have quite the same meaning. 

Celia, frightened at the grief of Isabel, came and 
put her arms around Big Sister. “ Don’t cry, 
Goldilocks, don’t cry,” she implored. 

Isabel wiped her eyes. She smelled something 
scorching in the kitchen. She ran out and found 
that the electric iron was burning a brown spot 
through the ironing-sheet. She rescued the iron and 
turned off the current; then set herself to the task 
of cleaning up the debris. 

Tears started again as she swept the fragments 
of the vase into the dust-pan, along with the pieces 


1 88 Isabel Carletons Friends 

of the glass bowl. She sopped up the water, and 
put the flowers into the ugliest vase she could find. 
“ I guess I was trying to be too artistic,” she 
groaned. 

Celia was chattering on about her troubles. 
“ Fifty cents, the bowl cost, Isabel, and I paid it out 
of my own money. And now there’s only one fish, 
and I bought two. And isn’t it awful to see him 
lying there, all — ” 

“You can have another,” Isabel consoled her. 
<( Fish are easy to replace.” 

“ It won’t be just the same one,” expostulated 
Celia, willing to defend her grief, as Isabel had 
been. 

The older girl cleared away the evidences of the 
disaster, and helped to dispose of the unfortunate 
fish, in a shady nook in the garden. She wiped the 
tears from Celia’s face, and hunted up an especially 
elegant piece of silk for a doll’s dress, thus assuaging 
the little girl’s grief. And then she began to feel 
conscience-stricken over the way in which she had 
pounced upon poor Bobo. “ I’ve always con- 
tended,” she muttered to herself, “ that it was silly 
and unjust to punish animals for doing merely what 
Nature intended they should do.” 

Celia decided to go and see Milly Mitchell, in the 
hope that Milly’s nurse, Sarah, would assist in con- 
structing the doll’s dress. Isabel went disconso- 
lately upstairs, and sat down to read, thus trying to 
forget the shattered jar. 

Through the open door of her room, she caught 
sight of Bobo, slinking along, his tail down, his back 
bent, his whole aspect that of one who fears another 


The Downfall of China 189 

unjust beating. Her heart smote her. She ran 
after the cat; but, casting a fearful glance at her, 
he scuttled into Fanny’s room, and hid himself in 
a dark corner under the bed. 

“ Down on your knees again,” cried Isabel to 
herself. She crawled under the bed for Bobo, 
soothed his hurt feelings by cuddlings and pettings, 
until he relaxed from the tense state of indignation 
and forgot his wrongs in sleep. 

Sitting quietly, and thinking calmly about the vase, 
Isabel lost some of the soreness in her heart, which 
the demolishing of her treasure had produced. And 
besides, there was the fraternity dance to think about. 

Even so, it was with a quiver of the lip that she 
said to Rodney that evening, in an interval between 
dances, “ Rod, I have a sad tale to tell about the 
downfall of china.” 

“ Eh? What have the Chinks been doing now? 
I thought they had a Republic or something,” an- 
swered Rodney, staring at her vaguely. 

“ I’m not spelling it with a capital,” Isabel re- 
turned sadly. “ It’s about that lovely — ” she 
choked — “ that lovely vase you gave me at the 
rummage-sale.” 

“ Oh, so the Celestials have nothing to do with 
it? Well, what about the vase?” Rodney was 
clearly interested. He had rather admired the vase, 
himself. 

“ It — it’s b-broken.” Isabel could hardly get 
the words out. 

“So?” Rodney was silent and frowning for a 
moment. Then his face cleared. “ Well, let it go 
to smash, then,” he said optimistically. 


190 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“ It did.” Isabel laughed, relieved at Rodney’s 
remark. “ Bobo did all he could to help.” 

“ Trust Bobo for that. What particular method 
did he employ this time? ” 

Isabel told the story, making it as merry as she 
could. 

“ I’ll try to get you another,” said Rodney 
quickly, when she had finished. 

“ I don’t think you could,” said Isabel. “ And 
anyway, I don’t want another. I want to remember 
that just as it was.” 

“ What it stood for isn’t smashed, Isabel.” For 
a moment Rodney’s eyes had the same look in them 
that they had had when he stood under the apple- 
tree, a few days before. 

“ I know it. We’ve got to learn that it isn’t the 
material things that count, anyway,” Isabel said 
slowly. “ The ideas that things stand for can’t be 
touched, can they? ” 

“ They cannot.” Rodney was decisive. 
“ What’s a yellow jug beside — ” 

“Yes — beside — ” Isabel was smiling up at 
him. 

The music began again. “ We have this one,” 
said Rodney. And as they whirled lightly about the 
room, Isabel was conscious that all the soreness had 
gone from her heart. And in her memory the yel- 
low jar was more beautiful than it had ever been. 

A little later, there was another serio-comic trag- 
edy among the Carletons. It happened because 
Melissy was persuaded to take an extra afternoon 
out. 


The Downfall of China 


191 


Isabel came running into the kitchen. “ Me- 
lissy,” she said hurriedly, “ Mrs. Mitchell tele- 
phoned that she’d like to take you for a ride in the 
car. She’s taking Celia and Billy-Boy, and she 
wants you, too.” 

Melissy looked blank. She stood with the dish- 
pan in her hand, her sleeves rolled up. “ Landyl ” 
she said, “ I’d just love to go, but the lunch dishes 
ain’t washed. I left ’em till I’d got the other 
things done.” Her face showed that she was har- 
rowed by contemplating this lost opportunity. 

“ Your kitchen is as neat as a pin, Melissy,” pro- 
tested Isabel. “ Do let your dishes go till you come 
back.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Melissy dubi- 
ously. “ I never was one to let my work lay on the 
shelf, while I was gallivantin’ around the country.” 

“ We all know that,” Isabel responded, “ but 
Mrs. Mitchell wants to go while it’s sunny, and it’s 
so much nicer at this time of day than it is after 
every bit of work is all finished up.” 

“ I’m just dreadful sorry, but I guess you’ll have 
to tell her that I can’t go.” 

“ I’ve already told her that you’re going,” smiled 
Isabel. 

“ Land of Goshen! ” Melissy’s face was glow- 
ing with joy. 

“ Now, run along and get ready, for they’ll be 
here in a minute. Go and get your hat on, and I’ll 
lend you a long veil. Better put on that long coat 
of mother’s. The wind is cold to-day.” 

She took Melissy by the arm, and hustled her 
jovially to the door. Mrs. Carleton met them in 


192 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

the hall. “ Of course you’re going,” she said. 
“ What are a few dishes on a bright day like this? 
Scamper along. Celia’s on the front porch, hop- 
ping up and down with impatience.” 

The car was tooting at the door when Melissy 
came downstairs, beaming. The veil was hurriedly 
tied on, and she ran out to join the others. 

Fanny came in just as they were starting. “ I 
think it’s fine that Melissy can get away once in a 
while,” she said. 

“ She didn’t want to leave the dishes,” Mrs. Carle- 
ton explained, looking after the car. 

“ Let’s do ’em and surprise her,” said Fanny im- 
pulsively, turning to Isabel. 

Big Sister hesitated. “ I have to go to an S. G. A. 
meeting,” she said, “ and — ” 

“ We can do ’em in fifteen minutes,” said Fanny, 
leading the way to the kitchen. “ There’s plenty of 
hot water in the tank”; she was feeling of the 
tank behind the stove. “ Come on, Miss Fuss- 
Budget. I’ll wash, so that you won’t get your lily- 
white hands spoiled.” 

“ All right,” agreed Isabel. She ran to get 
aprons. Fanny was already turning the hot water 
into the dishpan. There was a light clatter of cups 
and spoons, as the work was done by nimble fingers 
trained in Domestic Science courses. 

“ Thirteen minutes ! ” exulted Fanny, as she hung 
up the dish-cloth. “ Now to wash our hands and 
scatter.” She glanced about the kitchen, which was 
now immaculate. “ I’d hate to give up an automo- 
bile ride, just for a few silly dishes.” 

Isabel hurried away to her meeting, and when 


193 


The Downfall of China 

that was over, she had a few minutes’ talk with 
Meta, who, after all, had not written a “ sharp 
note ” to her father, but was still sullen and miser- 
able. 

When Isabel came back home, the house was sin- 
gularly quiet. She found her mother in her own 
room, with the fragments of a blue silk gown spread 
out upon the bed. “ What are you doing, Mother- 
of-Three? ” asked Isabel from the doorway. 

Mrs. Carleton looked up. “ I’ve been thinking 
about this dress, and it occurred to me that with a 
good pattern, I could put it together myself, and it 
would give me an extra gown to wear for dinner at 
home, and such things.” 

“ Yes, it would be pretty,” said Isabel specula- 
tively. “ You always looked so nice in it, with the 
real lace fichu. It’s too bad that the seams in the 
back pulled out.” 

“ Well, it was getting rather out of date, any- 
way.” Mrs. Carleton, with her head on one side, 
was considering how to make the somewhat scanty 
amount of goods go as far as possible. 

“ It’s such a relief to have the house so silent,” 
said Isabel, yawning. “ I think I’ll sit down and 
work at my long short-story for this month. I don’t 
know that I’ll ever get it finished. I’m sure I was 
never intended for a fiction writer, much as I used 
to think I was.” 

She went into her room and half closed the door, 
and then sat down at her desk. She was soon ab- 
sorbed in the task of telling a ghost story, founded 
on the tale which she had heard at Tibbies Green, 
while she was in England. She was never quite sure 


194 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

whether she had seen the ghost herself, or whether 
she had fallen asleep for a moment, and dreamed 
of the strange figure which had appeared in her 
room in the Fifteenth Century cottage. 

While she was going through what she had writ- 
ten, cutting out a passage here and adding a line 
there, she heard her mother go downstairs. Later, 
she heard, without being really conscious of the 
fact, two rings, which she classified as being at the 
front and the back door. There was a bit of mur- 
mured talk; and then she heard her mother humming 
about at the back of the house. 

At last Mrs. Carleton came up the back stairs, 
and the house was silent again. Isabel applied her- 
self intently to her theme. Now and then she noted 
the distant yells of the college boys playing base-ball 
on the lower campus; the subdued whir of the street- 
cars; and the jangling bell on a junk man’s wagon. 
A long time passed. 

With a sigh, Isabel leaned back in her chair. 
Just then she heard quick decisive footsteps in the 
lower hall. The front door closed, not gently, but 
with a spiteful slam. 

Rather surprised, Isabel stepped to the door of 
her room. Her mother stood in the opposite door, 
with a wild, horrified look on her face. “ Who 
could have been downstairs?” asked Isabel. 
“ Why, what is it, mother? ” 

“Oh, what have I done, what have I done?” 
cried Mrs. Carleton despairingly. She ran to the 
front window in the upper hall, and looked out. 
“ Oh, I knew it ! She’s gone away furious,” she 
groaned. 


The Downfall of China 


195 


Isabel, looking over her mother’s shoulder, saw a 
woman walking very stiffly, disappearing down the 
street. “ It’s Mrs. Colby, isn’t it, mother?” she 
asked. 

“ Oh, yes, yes.” Mrs. Carleton put her hand 
to her forehead with a humorous gesture of hor- 
ror. 

“ What on earth is the matter? ” Isabel cried im- 
patiently. She wondered whether her mother were 
going mad. 

“ Why, Isabel — she came to call, and I forgot 
all about her ! ” 

“ You didn’t, mother! ” 

“ Yes, I did. I let her in, and just then the man 
came to the back door for your father’s suit that was 
to be pressed; and I excused myself to Mrs. 
Colby — ” Mrs. Carleton stopped, with her hand 
over her eyes. 

“ And left her in the sitting-room? ” Isabel was 
incredulous. 

“ Yes, oh, yes ! And then I forgot every solitary 
thing about her. I noticed that the man who came 
for the clothes had tracked in some sand, and I 
swept that up, and then I got the grape-fruit ready 
for dessert — it’s so much better if it stands a 
while.” 

“ I heard you in the kitchen,” groaned Isabel. 

“ Then I remembered the dress that I was at,” 
Mrs. Carleton went on wretchedly, “ and how 
anxious I was to get it all cut out this afternoon — 
and I never thought about Mrs. Colby again.” 

“And she sat and sat — ” 

“ And heard me going back and forth, humming 


ig6 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

around — ” Mrs. Carleton’s voice trembled, as if 
she hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. 

“ Rattling the dishes and singing a hymn-tune.” 
Isabel burst into giggles which could not be re- 
pressed. 

“Oh, dear!” 

“ And she up and stalks away, mad as a wet hen.” 
The girl was laughing hilariously, in spite of her 
sympathy for her mother. 

“ I can’t blame her,” Mrs. Carleton was saying 
remorsefully. “ It was fearfully insulting.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Isabel. “ She might 
have known you wouldn’t do it purposely. She 
might have come to the kitchen door, or called up 
the stairs or something. Poor mother ! ” 

“ I’ve heard that she was easily offended,” said 
the shamefaced lady; “ and I particularly wanted to 
be nice to her, because she’s just been appointed to 
my committee in the Woman’s Club.” 

“ And I was terribly in hopes that she’d give us 
something for the Fund, this summer, because we’ll 
need such a lot to start in with, in the fall.” Isa- 
bel was still giggling, but she began to look serious, 
too. “ It’s rather awful. What are you going to 
do about it? ” 

“ I’ll have to go and see her, I suppose — or 
write her a note. Perhaps that would be safer. I 
don’t want her to shut the door in my face.” 

“ I don’t believe she’d quite do that. But I can 
see that the Fund will never profit by Mrs. Colby. 
She’ll probably run a block when she sees us, after 
this.” 

“ I’m overcome with chagrin. I can’t say any- 


The Downfall of China 197 

thing to your father any more, about his being ab- 
sent-minded, can I?” Laughing, but with tears in 
her eyes, Mrs. Carleton went to roll up the silk 
goods on the bed. “ I’m too upset to do anything 
more to-day,” she said mournfully. 

Isabel, still chuckling, went back to her story. 

She heard the honk of the returning automobile, 
and then the chatter of Celia, mingled with the shrill 
admonitory tones of Melissy. She put aside her 
work, and went back to her mother’s room. Mrs. 
Carleton, in a low willow chair, was knitting in the 
intervals of wiping her eyes. Isabel put her arm 
around her mother’s shoulder. 

“ Never mind, Mumsey,” she said. “ I’ll take a 
note to Mrs. Colby, and I believe it can all be fixed 
up. And we have another perfectly lovely one 
added to our family collection of jokes! ” 


CHAPTER XI 

THE COMMITTEE FOR STUDENT HONESTY 



HE family had just finished lunch, and were 


still sitting at the table, when the postman 
rang, and Melissy brought in the mail. There were 
several letters for Professor Carleton, and there 
was one for Isabel. With a murmured apology, 
Isabel ran through hers, while Celia excused herself 
and disappeared into the kitchen, and Fanny talked 
with her mother about some errands which were to 
be done on the way home from school. 

“ Half my interest nowadays seems to be centered 
in letters,” said Isabel. “ Here’s one from Evelyn 
Taylor — or Evelyn Delafield, I suppose I must 
call her now.” 

“ You haven’t heard from her in a great while, 
have you?” said Mrs. Carleton. 

“ No, but when people are married, you can’t 
expect much of them as friends, I’m beginning to 
think.” 

“ I dare say she’s busy,” Mrs. Carleton agreed. 

“ Yes, she has a lovely little bungalow. See, 
she’s sent me a kodak picture of it — roses all 
around it; there must be jungles of roses in Port- 
land, and labyrinths of hydrangeas.” Isabel dis- 
played the picture, which Fanny and her mother 
glanced at. “ Evelyn says she has to do quite a lot 
of her own work, because help is so scarce.” 


The Committee for Student Honesty 199 

“ I shouldn’t think she’d like that,” said Fanny. 
“ She always seemed to like nice clothes so well, and 
want to keep her hands pretty.” 

“ She says she blunders along, and burns herself 
and the puddings once in a while, but she does very 
well for all that.” 

“ I thought Evelyn would make a very sweet do- 
mestic little housewife,” Mrs. Carleton said pleas- 
antly; “ and that Fred would let her do just about 
as she pleased.” 

“He has to,” answered Isabel with a smile; 
“women vote out there, you know. Fred has en- 
tered right into the spirit of things. He says he 
isn’t going to have his wife waiting on him all the 
time, and degenerating into either a domestic serv- 
ant or an ornament; so he encourages her to join 
some clubs, and help along with a day nursery, and 
do things for the women in the canning factories. 
He says he can take his dinner at a restaurant once 
in a while, or go without, rather than have Evelyn 
a slave to the kitchen.” 

“ I’m going to go West and get married,” spoke 
up Fanny. “ I’m not going to spend my life think- 
ing what a man likes to eat, and where his clean 
socks are.” 

“ Hush, Fanny,” admonished Mrs. Carleton. 
“ You’re too young to talk about such things.” 

“ You can’t begin too young to be independent,” 
Fanny returned. But she subsided when Professor 
Carleton looked over his glasses at her with a sur- 
prised air. 

“ It’s very nice to hear about Evelyn again,” said 
Mrs. Carleton hurriedly. “ You and she enjoyed 


200 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

each other’s society so much. What is it, Arthur? ” 
she asked, noting that her husband had finished his 
letters. “ Has something good happened? ” 

“ I think you’ll call it so, my dear.” The others 
sat breathless. “ I’ve been appointed head of my 
department.” The professor could not conceal the 
satisfaction which he felt. 

“Oh, hooray, father!” Isabel clapped her 
hands. 

“Good for old Popsey-Professor! ” shouted 
Fanny. 

“ I’m perfectly delighted, Arthur,” cried Mrs. 
Carleton. “ I knew it would come out in that way. 
They couldn’t do otherwise. They had to be fair, 
you know.” 

“Oh, we’re so pleased and proud!” Isabel 
leaned over to pat the fingers that still held the letter 
which told the good news. 

“ I’m afraid that the first thing I think of is that 
it means greater financial freedom for my family,” 
confessed the new head of the department. “ I 
used to scorn such base considerations; but with 
prices as they are now, a man has to think of his 
family before he allows himself any academic no- 
tions.” 

“ I don’t believe you exactly mean that,” said 
Mrs. Carleton, “ but the strain on a professor now 
is really rather dreadful. There was a time when 
you put your research work above everything else; 
and you had a secret hope that you might become a 
great man. Didn’t you, dear? ” 

Professor Carleton smiled wistfully across the 
table at his wife. “ Every young man thinks he’s 


The Committee for Student Honesty 201 

going to be something out of the ordinary. But now 
I know I’m just going to plod along, doing the same 
thing over and over, and being as honest and happy 
as I can.” 

“Poor father! Your family is a sort of Old 
Man of the Sea on your back, isn’t it? ” commiser- 
ated Isabel. 

“ Not at all. Or if it is, I love my Incubus, and 
would not have it snatched away.” 

“ The Old Man loves you, anyway,” said Fanny 
humbly to her father, “ and tries to be grateful, 
even if it doesn’t act so.” This was a good deal, 
to come from Fanny. 

“ I don’t want gratitude, but I do want love,” re- 
turned Professor Carleton. “ And to change the 
subject, I have a request for a magazine article, to 
be sent in very soon ; and six commencement lectures 
(another one in a letter, here) , and two club lectures. 
So I shall be so busy that I shall hardly come to 
meals for a while.” 

“ I like father because he’s so smart,” Fanny re- 
marked, “ but there are other reasons, too. He’s 
the best-looking man on the faculty, I think. That 
counts for a good deal. Father, I’m not at all sure 
I’d love you quite so much if you had a cross-eye 
like Professor Hunter, or red whiskers and a hooked 
nose, like Professor Rausch.” 

“ Fanny, child,” protested Mrs. Carleton. 
“ You know they are very splendid men; and how do 
you know that Antoinette Hunter doesn’t love her 
father just as much as you do yours? ” 

“ Maybe she does, mother. I was just saying that 
I couldn’t.” 


202 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

Professor Carleton looked his disapproval. “ I 
fear you are incurably frivolous, Fanny,” he said. 
“ Handsome is as handsome does, you know.” 

“ But you’re Is and Does , both, Pappy. That’s 
what I was chortling about.” 

“ Well, as I was saying,” the professor went on, 
ignoring Fanny’s reply, “ I feel, as I’ve so often 
told you, that self-expression is the thing that makes 
us all useful and happy.” 

“ I believe we have heard something of that kind 
before.” Isabel bit her lip. “ I’m not sure, fa- 
ther, but what your middle name is Self-Expression.” 

“ If it isn’t, it ought to be,” laughed the professor. 
“ Anyway, you youngsters can’t hear too much about 
developing your own individualities.” 

“ We’re having it hammered into us,” responded 
Fanny. “ I’m getting so that I can’t take a drink 
of water or lace up my shoes without wondering 
whether I’m expressing my Best Self.” 

“ That’s carrying it rather far.” The professor 
rose from the table. “Well, I promised Rambeau 
that I’d meet him at the University Club to talk 
over some faculty matters. I must be off.” 

“ Many, many congratulations, Most Worthy 
Professor,” cried Isabel. She squeezed her father’s 
hand as he went by her chair. “ He’s a dear, isn’t 
he?” she said, after he had gone. “He does so 
want us to be perfect. It’s rather pathetic, isn’t it, 
mother? ” 

“ I don’t know that I should call it that,” Mrs. 
Carleton replied. “ But he does want you to be the 
very best you can, with your opportunities, and the 
parents that it’s been your lot to have.” 


The Committee for Student Honesty 203 

“ If we don’t turn out any worse than they have, 
I don’t think we’ll be so very bad,” meditated 
Fanny. 

Just then Celia came running in from the kitchen, 
with Melissy following her somewhat shyly. 

“ Oh, mother, look what Melissy made for me,” 
cried the child. “ She made it her very own self.” 
She displayed a crocheted collar, of an intricate and 
attractive pattern, which she was wearing in place 
of her usual linen one. 

“ Oh, isn’t that sweet! ” Fanny slid her fingers 
under the collar, and examined its beautifully woven 
pattern. “ Did Melissy really make that for you? ” 

“ I just did it at odd times. It’s easy when you 
know how,” beamed Melissy, her sharp face soft- 
ened by pride and affection. “ I finished it while 
the corn-muffins was baking.” 

“ It’s ever so kind of you, Melissy,” said Mrs. 
Carleton gratefully. 

“ I loved to do it,” Melissy answered. She was 
standing with her hands folded in her apron. “ I 
remember, when I was a little girl, I didn’t have 
anything pretty to wear, and I always used to stare 
at the things the other girls wore to school. I recol- 
lect that when a little miss came to school with a 
crocheted collar on, that her mother had made for 
her, I went out behind the rows of cordwood in the 
yard, and cried. I don’t know whether it was more 
because I didn’t have any mother or any collar, but 
I guess it was kind-a both.” 

Fanny looked over at Isabel with a suspicion of 
tears in her dark eyes. 

Melissy was going on, “ I have a feeling that I’d 


204 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

like to give every little girl I see a lace collar. Of 
course, I know that Celia has lots of pretty things, 
but I just did want to give her this.” 

“ We love you for it, Melissy,” Mrs. Carleton 
said again. “ Thank you ever so much. Did you 
thank her, Celia? ” 

“ I should say I did. But thank you again — 
and more, too,” called Celia, as Melissy went back 
to the kitchen. 

“ Poor Melissy! ” Isabel burst out. “ She makes 
me feel a kind of rage at the inequalities in this 
world. I can’t see yet why some people should have 
so much and others so little.” 

“ I think Melissy has a whole lot,” Fanny sent 
back, — “ a good deal more than some snips of girls 
I’ve seen, who togged themselves out in gew-gaws, 
and were always swooning for pink silk petticoats 
and high-heeled shoes.” 

“ Don’t ‘ git pussonal,’ Fan,” pleaded Isabel. “ I 
think Melissy has a lot, too, if you mean kindness of 
heart, and things like that.” 

“ That’s what I do mean. She can teach us all 
something. I don’t think that white hands and good 
grammar count for so very much, if you haven’t any 
character to go with ’em.” 

“ You make me feel about a foot high,” said Isa- 
bel. “ And goodness me, look at the hour. I must 
skip along, for I have to go to a very important 
meeting of my committee in the Self Government 
Association.” She felt very important, herself, for 
she had lately been asked to serve on the Committee 
for Student Honesty. 

As she hurried up the Hill, she was thinking about 


The Committee for Student Honesty 205 

this committee and some matters connected with the 
Ramsay Fund for girls. Rather out of breath, she 
ran upstairs to the class-room where the meeting 
of the Committee was to be held. Those in the 
seats were chatting with one another when she went 
in. She sat down beside a Miss Weaver, a severe 
young woman with hard eyes. This Miss Weaver 
had been graduated from a Normal School, and 
had taught school in the grades in a small town, in 
order to earn money to come to college. This much 
she had confided to Isabel at a previous meeting. 

“ It’s a case of cheating, to-day,” said Miss 
Weaver. 

“ Yes, so I understood,” returned Isabel cau- 
tiously. 

“ There’s no necessity of that sort of thing, what- 
ever,” Miss Weaver went on. “ I never had to 
cheat to get through school.” 

“ No, of course not,” Isabel answered. “ But 
people are not all constituted alike.” 

“ They all ought to be honest, even if they aren’t 
constituted alike,” said the other young woman in 
a sharp voice. She looked at Isabel as if she thought 
her inexcusably lax. 

“ Oh, of course,” Isabel murmured. She was 
glad that the Chairman called the meeting to order 
at that point. 

“ We have had this special meeting called to-day,” 
the Chairman said, “ to consider the case of Miss 
Harriet Plover, who has been accused of cheating 
in a French examination.” He then read the state- 
ment of the instructor who, it seems, had detected 
the girl peeping into her grammar at a quiz. He 


206 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

had spoken to her privately, after the class, so that 
the rest of the students in that section had known 
nothing of the accusation. The girl had admitted 
the charge, and the instructor recommended that she 
be dealt with by the Committee for Student Honesty, 
a branch of the Self Government Association. 

There were a few questions by members of the 
Committee, and then the Chairman said to Isabel, 
who was sitting at the end of a row of seats, “ Miss 
Carleton, will you bring Miss Plover in? She’s 
waiting in the next room.” 

“ Certainly,” Isabel replied. Her heart sank. 
She stepped into the next room, which was connected 
with the one which the Committee was in. A dis- 
consolate form was huddled on a bench at the back 
of the room. Isabel went over and touched the girl 
on the shoulder. Miss Plover, a girl of seventeen, 
with a plump pretty figure, started, and turned a 
tear-stained face to Isabel. “ You’re to come into 
the committee-room,” said the older girl, as gently 
as she could, for she was harrowed by the misery in 
the eyes of the other. 

The girl shrank away. “ It doesn’t seem as if I 
could,” she said tremblingly. 

Isabel stood looking at her absently. What if 
it were herself — or Fanny — brought face to face 
with a Committee? she thought. “ You must,” she 
said aloud to Miss Plover; adding, as she slipped her 
arm around the girl’s waist, “ Don’t be frightened. 
I think they’ll be kind.” She was not so sure, her- 
self. “ Anyway, it’s best to get it over.” 

“ Yes, I’ve got to get it over — or — or I don’t 


The Committee for Student Honesty 207 

know what will happen,” said Harriet, with a gasp- 
ing sob. 

She walked unsteadily toward the door. She 
wore a very stylish little dark blue silk gown, with 
bronze pumps, and hose to match; her organdie col- 
lar and velvet bow were peculiarly coquettish, and 
she wore her hair brought forward in two shells, 
against her over-red cheeks. 

“ Poor frivolous little thing! ” was Isabel’s 
thought, as she looked at the young girl beside her. 
“ I hope they won’t be too cruel.” She remembered 
the hard eyes of Miss Weaver. The two girls en- 
tered the committee-room, and stood before the 
members of the group, a varied lot, with thoughtful 
or pitying or contemptuous faces. At a gesture 
from the Chairman, Isabel sat down, and left Har- 
riet standing close beside her. 

“ Miss Plover,” said the Chairman, in a courte- 
ously impartial voice, “ as you know, you have been 
called before this Committee, to answer a charge 
filed against you, to the effect that you were caught 
cheating in your first-year French class.” The girl 
stood looking down, her hands nervously clutching 
her handkerchief. “ Have you any explanation or 
defense to make?” asked the Chairman in a kinder 
tone than before. 

“ Only — only — ” began Harriet Plover in a low 
voice, “ that I was afraid to fail — it seemed as if 
I couldn’t bear it. My father would have been so 
— disappointed.” It sounded as if she had in- 
tended to use a different word from the one at the 
last. 


208 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


“ Couldn’t you pass your examinations without 
cheating?” The expression came out sternly. 

The girl’s head went lower. u I suppose I could, 
if I had studied; but I hadn’t studied before that 
quiz.” 

“Why not?'” 

“ I intended to ; but — but I suppose I was having 
too good a time.” 

“ Did you come to college to have a good time? ” 

“ Not exactly. But I never was away from home 
before — I entered in the second semester — and it 
seemed so good to do just as I pleased — and I was 
having such a good time, and the girls said one didn’t 
have to study very hard, just to get through — ” 
She stopped, as if she were choking. 

“ Well? ” the Chairman encouraged. 

“ And Monsieur D’Albert told me I’d fail if I 
didn’t do better on the next test. So I intended to 
study hard — I really did — but that night some one 
asked me to go canoeing, and then — ” 

“You didn’t get your studying done?” The 
Chairman spoke again after the silence had become 
oppressive. 

“ No. And all of a sudden, I thought how my 
father would go on if I failed. He’s a — a — hard 
father — ” 

Isabel held her hands together very tightly in her 
lap. How would it seem, she thought, to have a 
“hard” father, who “went on” when one failed? 

“ I never did such a thing before,” Harriet was 
saying. Her voice broke piteously. 

“Then you do not deny the accusation?” asked 
the Chairman in a formal manner. 


The Committee for Student Honesty 209 

“ No,” answered Harriet with dry lips. 

“ Has any one anything to say? ” asked the Chair- 
man, turning to the members of the Committee, who 
had sat listening intently to what was being said. 

Miss Weaver rose severely to her feet. “ Mr. 
Chairman,” she said in her cold voice, “ I wish to 
say that I do not think we should be easy with such 
an offender. She admits the truth of the charge 
against her. She confesses that she has not studied. 
She has frittered away her time, and then tried to 
get through by cheating. It is a flagrant case, and 
I believe we ought to deal with it without mercy. 
There is no excuse for such behavior, and the sooner 
people find that out, the better it will be for them.” 
She stared hard at Harriet Plover as she sat down. 

There was a tense silence in the room, after Miss 
Weaver had spoken. A man on a back seat nodded 
solemnly. Another man looked furtively at his 
watch. 

“Is there any one else who wishes to speak?” 
asked the Chairman, not very encouragingly. 

Isabel forgot herself, and leaped to her feet. “ I 
wish to ask,” she began impetuously, “ where Miss 
Plover has been living, and whether, as a freshman, 
she has had proper supervision since she came to 
college.” 

The Chairman looked surprised. He turned to 
Miss Plover with a polite, “ Will you answer the 
question Miss Carleton has asked?” 

“ I’ve been rooming at Mrs. Caldwell’s, on South 
Brooks Street,” answered Harriet. 

“ And going out for your meals? ” queried Isabel. 

“ Yes.” 


210 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ I’d like to inquire whether Mrs. Caldwell pays 
any attention to the hours that the girls in her house 
keep, or the amount of time that they give to their 
studying? ” 

“ Does she, Miss Plover? ” asked the Chairman, 
deeply interested. 

“ No, not the least little bit,” replied Harriet with 
spirit. “ She just wanted her money, and when she 
got that, she let us do exactly as we pleased.” 

“And you did?” said Isabel with a flicker of a 
smile. 

“Yes — I am afraid I did, just exactly.” Har- 
riet spoke contritely, as one confesses one’s faults to 
a friend. 

“ Well, I think,” said Isabel, her eyes flashing, 
“ that the trouble is not altogether with Miss Plover. 
She came here, a young, unprotected girl, and was 
sent to a place recommended by the University, and 
she had not the slightest bit of supervision or cor- 
rection or advice. She was intoxicated by freedom, 
as so many girls are, who have been dealt with se- 
verely at home. She loved to do as she pleased, and 
didn’t realize what it might lead to. It’s terribly 
tempting — this having a good time — if a girl is 
attractive and full of life.” She paused. Miss 
Weaver stared at her sourly. Isabel went on. “It 
seems to me that Mrs. Caldwell and the University 
ought to be here on trial, instead of Miss Plover. 
If it is true that Mrs. Caldwell doesn’t look after 
the girls who are rooming at her house, then her 
permission to have University roomers ought to be 
taken away from her. What we need is more dor- 
mitories, where the girls can live under supervision; 


The Committee for Student Honesty 21 1 

and the Dean of Women needs more help, so that 
she can send some one out to see how the girls are 
cared for; and we need a lot more direction and 
help for the younger boys and girls who haven’t 
learned how to study. I feel, oh, I feel very 
strongly, that Miss Plover ought to be given another 
chance. Don’t let’s expel her,” Isabel pleaded, 
turning toward the committee. “ Let’s help her, 
and see if she can’t redeem herself.” 

The others were sitting up straighter, and some 
of the committee nodded vigorously. At the same 
time, Miss Weaver squirmed in her seat, and shook 
her head with great vehemence. 

A shy looking woman got up and said haltingly, 
“ What Miss Carleton has said is just what I think, 
only I hadn’t the courage to say it as she has. I 
believe that Miss Plover should be dealt with leni- 
ently and given another chance. Moreover, I be- 
lieve that this matter should be kept secret, so that 
she need not be under a stigma of any sort. I feel 
certain that she will never do anything like this 
again.” 

“I never, never will!” Harriet burst out pas- 
sionately. 

Glancing back, Isabel saw that the faces behind 
her were more kindly and generous than they had 
been. She rose once more. “ I agree with what 
has been said,” she remarked. “ I believe that, 
contrary to the usual custom, no notice should be 
sent to Miss Plover’s father. When she feels bet- 
ter about this matter, she may want to tell him; but 
till then, I think the matter is one which she must 
face alone — if possible, without condemnation.” 


212 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

The Chairman looked relieved. “ Is there a mo- 
tion?” he asked, cheerfully. 

A tall young man whom Isabel had noticed sev- 
eral times about the campus, rose with his hands in 
his pockets, and in a very dry voice put the motion : 
“ Mr. Chairman, I move that Miss Harriet Plover 
be discharged without punishment, and without hav- 
ing her — er — mistake revealed to any one. I 
also move that this Committee send a strong recom- 
mendation to the Board of Regents, asking that an 
assistant be granted to the Dean of Women, so that 
girls living away from home can be more closely 
supervised; and I may add, that Mrs. Caldwell’s 
methods be investigated.” 

“Is there a second to the motion?” asked the 
Chairman. 

The motion was quickly seconded and passed, 
with only two dissenting voices, the louder of which 
was Miss Weaver’s. 

“ You are discharged, Miss Plover,” said the 
Chairman, “ and we feel assured that this experi- 
ence has been punishment enough, — that you will 
never put yourself in such a position again.” 

“ I want to thank you for being kind — ” began 
Miss Plover, but her voice broke. She buried her 
face in her hands, and Isabel rose and led her from 
the room. 

In the next room she gave the weeping girl a hug. 
“ Oh, I’m so glad, so glad they gave you a chance ! ” 
she cried. 

Harriet looked up, wiping her eyes. “ Oh, it’s so 
wonderful to be free! ” she gasped. “ If I’d been 
sent home — oh, Miss Carleton, you don’t know my 


The Committee for Student Honesty 213 

father. I couldn’t bear facing him. I should have 
run away — or — or something worse,” she began 
to sob again. 

Isabel patted her on the shoulder. “ Never mind. 
It’s all over now. You can make a new start.” 
She had a sudden thought. “ Don’t you want to 
come home and have dinner at my house? I live 
here in Jefferson, you know.” 

The girl’s face lighted. “ You’re Professor 
Carleton’s daughter, aren’t you?” 

“ Yes. We call him our Popsey-Professor. 
He’s a dear.” Isabel thought the next moment that 
it was rather cruel to contrast her own father with 
Miss Plover’s “ hard ” one. “ Won’t you come? ” 
she asked hastily. “ My mother’d love to have 
you.” 

“ I’d love to come. Would it be all right? ” an- 
swered Harriet. 

“ Why, of course. I’ll telephone mother from 
father’s office. I have to go back to the Committee 
meeting now, and I have classes later. You do too, 
don’t you? ” 

“ Yes, but I don’t know — ” Harriet hesitated. 

“ Oh, you can go to them all right,” Isabel en- 
couraged her, “ if you just go down to the dressing- 
room and wash your eyes in cold water. Nobody 
will know a thing. And I’ll meet you in the 
Women’s Study Room at five, and we can have a 
little walk before dinner. Will that suit you? ” 

“ I should say it would! I’ll be waiting.” 

Isabel went back for the other business of the 
Committee, and then hurried to her afternoon 
classes. At the time appointed, she found Harriet 


214 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


sitting in the window of the Women’s Study Room. 
The traces of tears had long since disappeared, and 
a new look of happiness and resolution almost trans- 
figured the face of the young girl. Isabel felt some- 
how immensely older and stronger than this frivo- 
lous child, although the difference in years was not 
very great. 

They took a leisurely stroll along the lake path, 
and talked about everything except the trouble which 
Harriet had been through. It was nearly dinner- 
time when they arrived at the Carleton home. Mrs. 
Carleton was coming downstairs, freshly dressed and 
smiling. “ Mother, I’ve brought Harriet Plover, 
as I told you,” said Isabel. “ I hope you’re going 
to have something especially good, for dinner, be- 
cause we’ve been for a walk, and we’re nearly 
starved.” 

Mrs. Carleton gave Isabel a kiss, and stretched 
a welcoming hand to Harriet. “ I’m very glad to 
have you with us,” she said simply. “ Melissy has 
made us a chicken pie — the kind we have out at 
Grandmother’s; so your two hungers can be stayed, 
at least, if not satisfied.” 

“ Hooray for Melissy! ” cried Isabel. “ She and 
father are distinguishing themselves to-day. Come 
on upstairs, Miss Plover — oh, shan’t I call you 
Harriet? ” 

“Yes, do,” responded the guest with a grateful 
smile. 

After Harriet had taken off her hat, and pow- 
dered her nose a bit, and looked at Isabel’s room, 
and met Fanny, and heard about Celia, the gong 


The Committee for Student Honesty 215 

rang for dinner. The girls went down, chatting 
like old friends. 

The table looked very pretty, with the candles 
in the yellow shades — it was too light for the 
lamps — the daffodils in a glass vase, the shining 
linen and silver. “ What a relief from the cafe- 
teria ! ” exclaimed Harriet, taking hold of Isabel’s 
arm. “ I’m so glad you asked me.” 

The quiet home meal, with the delicious food and 
the gay conversation, was a very great pleasure to 
Harriet, though she was clearly somewhat in awe of 
Professor Carleton, especially when she gathered 
from the talk around the table that he had been 
made the head of his department. “ I always think 
of professors as sitting on platforms and lecturing 
to hordes of students, but never as actually sitting 
at a table and eating,” she said, flushing at her own 
boldness. 

“ My girls have no respect for professors what- 
ever,” laughed the father of the family. “ They 
see them eating, far too often.” 

Harriet could not stay long after dinner, for she 
had to get back to her room and begin her belated 
studying. When she was putting on her stylish hat 
before the glass in Isabel’s room, she said with a 
determined quiver in her voice, “ I’m going to get 
right at that French and dig.” 

Isabel had been thinking hard, all through dinner. 
“ I’ll help you for a few days, until you get started 
again,” she said quietly. It was really difficult for 
her to give up her time, but Harriet needed help 
very badly just then. 


216 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ Oh, would you? ” Harriet looked at her new 
friend with incredulous delight. 

“ I’d like to. I’ve had quite a little French, you 
know. And when I was studying the grammar the 
first time, I worked out a little scheme for memoriz- 
ing irregular verbs, which I think will help you. Do 
you have a vacant hour in the forenoon? ” 

“ Yes, at eleven o’clock.” 

u So do I. I’ll meet you in Room 345 — that’s 
the one next the big French classroom. It’s vacant 
at that hour, and I often go in there to study.” 

“ It will be splendid to have some one to give me 
a lift,” Harriet said, almost in tears. “ I felt as 
if I could never make up what I’d lost.” 

“ Yes, you can. You’ll be all right in a week or 
two, if you study like mad.” 

“ I’ll do that, believe me.” 

“ All right, lady. To-morrow, eleven o’clock, 
Room 345.” 

Harriet put her arms around Isabel. “ I can’t 
thank you,” she said feelingly. 

u No need to,” answered Isabel blithely. “ It 
was a trifle. Come and say good-night to mother. 
I think she’s in her room.” 

After more good-nights, Harriet went away with 
a smile and a bright hope in her eyes. 

Isabel got out her books with a sigh. She was 
very tired. “ But it was worth while, and I learned 
a lot,” she said to herself. “ And I’m not even 
going to tell mother about what happened to Har- 
riet. It wouldn’t be fair. Now for this report on 
the Corn Laws. Funny name, when there wasn’t 


The Committee for Student Honesty 217 

really any corn.” She yawned and began to bury 
herself with the inevitable and wearisome “ re- 
port,” which seems to form the staple of the aca- 
demic work in college. 


CHAPTER XII 

A BOHEMIA.N FOLK-SONG 

I SABEL was in her room, working on an unusually 
difficult French theme, which she was very de- 
sirous of finishing that evening. With dictionary 
and grammar, she was struggling to express in 
French a report of an English lecture in psychology 
which had been assigned as a part of the term’s 
work. Fanny was in her own room, practicing her 
music lesson for the next day. Monotonously the 
sound of the violin came through the wall — one 
bar of a folk-song in a minor key, played over and 
over. Isabel had stopped to listen to it at first, for 
its melancholy seemed attractive; but after a while 
she began to fidget and to lose her train of thought. 
As time went on, the scream of the violin, reiterating 
the rather harsh minor cadence, completely unnerved 
her. 

“Ugh! I do wish Fanny would stop,” she mut- 
tered. “ It’s driving me mad.” She threw down 
her pen, and nervously arranged her papers, wait- 
ing for the music to stop. But Fanny had changed 
to another bar, and kept going over and over it, as 
she had done with the other. “ Oh, dear,” groaned 
Isabel despairingly. 

She made another effort to concentrate on the 
theme, which was one upon which a whole week’s 
mark depended. “ I did so want to have it right,” 
218 


219 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

she murmured, “ but I’m getting so desperate that 
I can’t tell one word from another.” It seemed as 
if the bow of the violin were being sawed across her 
nerves. At last she gave up, and laid her books 
aside. “ I’ll have to go downstairs until Fanny gets 
through,” she said to herself. 

But just then with a long wail the playing stopped. 
Isabel went back to her theme. She was “ all on 
edge,” ready to jump up and down with nervous- 
ness. She heard a step at the door. Fanny tapped 
and then came in, looking haggard and tired. “ I 
wanted to borrow that book of travels that you 
brought home from the library,” she said. “ It’s 
about Sweden, you know, and there’s something in it 
about folk-dances, and folk-songs. I thought I’d 
look at it after I got into bed.” 

“ It’s there on the book-case,” answered Isabel, 
her brow knitted over an irregular verb. “ Good- 
ness! what is the imperfect of that verb, anyway? ” 
Then, as Fanny turned away with the book, some 
evil demon prompted Isabel to say, in half-humor- 
ous irritation, “ For goodness’ sake, Fan, I’m glad 
I haven’t chosen such an uproarious profession as 
yours! ” She ran her finger down the page of the 
dictionary without looking up. u If I set out to 
make a gew-gaw, everybody in town doesn’t need to 
know it.” 

Fanny stopped and stared. Not unless you talk 
about it, which I notice you’re quite capable of do- 
ing,” she answered stiffly. “ I’m sorry you find me 
a nuisance,” she went on, “ but I don’t see how I’m 
to learn to play without practicing.” 

“ Oh, it’s all right,” said Isabel quickly. “ I’m 


220 Isabel Garletori s Friends 

sorry I said what I did but I was trying to get this 
French theme finished, and I couldn’t concentrate on 
anything.” 

“ I don’t know that your French theme is any 
more important than my Bohemian folk-song,” re- 
turned Fanny. 

“It isn’t — of course it isn’t,” said Isabel, al- 
ready ashamed of her peevishness. “ But you kept 
doing the same bar over and over.” 

“I had to get it right, didn’t I?” Fanny was 
very tart in her reply. 

“ Yes, yes, I know you did. I’m sorry that I 
spoke.” Isabel fluttered the leaves of the dictionary 
impatiently. 

“ I think you’re unkind, Isabel,” Fanny was going 
on, “ to make a fuss when I’m trying to do the best 
I can, to get along with my school work and prac- 
ticing, too. If I didn’t have to go to school, I could 
do my practicing while the rest of the family are out 
of the house; but I don’t see how I’m going to get 
an education and study music at the same time, if I 
don’t do my practicing just whenever I can — ” 

“Oh, Fanny, that’s enough! ” cried Isabel. “I 
understand perfectly how difficult it is for you. I 
wish you’d accept my apologies.” 

“ I can’t see that apologies count for very much, 
when you’ve said something that hurts another per- 
son’s feelings.” Fanny stood with her hand on the 
door-knob, and Isabel could see that the hand was 
shaking. 

“ Well, I don’t know that they do count for very 
much,” the older girl conceded. “ But they’re the 
best I can offer, aren’t they? ” 


221 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

“ The best thing you can do is to think before you 
speak, and keep from hurting people’s feelings, 
then.” 

Isabel was getting terribly bored with this futile 
discussion. “ Well, if people are going to be so 
painfully sensitive that their feelings are always 
lying around loose for other folks to hurt, I don’t 
know what any one can do.” 

“ They can be a little more considerate. You 
needn’t think, Isabel Carleton, that the only one in 
this house who has any rights is your own little 
self.” Fanny’s voice was rising to a wail. 

“ I never did cherish such an illusion,” said Isabel 
coldly. “ And certainly I have been properly put 
in my place now, so that henceforth I shall know 
my bounds and limits.” 

“ You might be told, and you might know, but 
that’s no sign you’d pay any attention to ’em.” 

“ Oh-h-h ! ” Isabel sighed in exasperation, “ let’s 
not talk about it any more, Angel Child. I think 
we’ve said enough, and I for one want to get some- 
thing done this evening. I can’t spend my whole 
time wrangling about nothing.” 

“ I’m not an Angel Child,” snapped Fanny. 

“Is it possible?” Isabel was amiably satirical. 

“ No, and you needn’t call me that. And as for 
wrangling, I’d like to know who started it. You — ” 

Isabel put her hands over her ears. u Oh, my 
stars, Fanny,” she groaned, “ what in the world ails 
you?” 

“ Yes, it’s all my fault,” shrilled Fanny. She 
dropped the book on the floor with a thud, and burst 
into tears. 


C\ 


222 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

Mrs. Carleton, across the hall, had heard the 
echoes of the altercation. She looked in, with an 
astonished face. “ What on earth is the matter, 
girls?” she asked. “Fanny, dear, what are you: 
crying about? ” 

Fanny brushed past her mother without answer- 
ing, and fled to her own room. She shut the door 
with a bang, but her sobs could be heard through 
the partition. 

“ Isabel, what have you done, to Fanny? ” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Carleton. “ It must have been some- 
thing pretty bad.” 

“ I haven’t done anything,” responded the girl 
wretchedly. “ I hardly know now what it was all 
about. It was just nothing at all. I don’t see why 
she has to go all to pieces, like a firecracker.” Isa- 
bel put her head down on the desk and began to cry. 

“ Oh, dear, to think that sisters should get into 
such a squabble! You’re the older, Isabel,” said 
Mrs. Carleton with reproach in her tone. “You 
might have been a little more patient.” Her own 
voice trembled. 

Isabel began laughing hysterically. “ Mother, if 
you cry, I shall go mad! ” she said. 

“But what was the trouble?” Mrs. Carleton 
queried, controlling herself. 

Isabel wiped her eyes. “ It was because Fanny 
kept sawing away at the same bars over and over — ” 

“Yes, it is trying, at times,” Mrs. Carleton ad- 
mitted. 

“ And I got so nervous I could scarcely keep from 
shrieking; and then, just at the wrong minute, she 
came into the room to borrow a book, and — oh, 


223 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

mother, I’m sorry, but I said something, half-joking, 
you know, about being glad that I hadn’t chosen such 
a noisy occupation in life — ” 

“Oh, Isabel!” 

“ Well, I didn’t think how it sounded.” 

“ You know how sensitive Fanny is.” 

“ I ought to know. I suppose one has to be, to 
play the violin.” Isabel wiped her eyes again. 
“ But she needn’t have been so ready to take of- 
fense.” 

“ She was tired out. She practiced two hours this 
afternoon, between school and dinner, and then again 
this evening.” Mrs. Carleton walked about the 
room, frowning. Fanny’s muffled sobs could still 
be heard from the next room. “ I don’t like to have 
her upset like this. She’s under strain enough, try- 
ing to do so much. Herr Reuter is a dreadfully 
driving teacher.” The sobbing grew louder. “ I’ll 
have to go and see what I can do.” 

“ Oh, what an awful business,” Isabel moaned. 
“ I’m just as sorry as I can be. Honestly, I was 
so on edge that I didn’t realize what I was saying.” 

“ I know. But words, Isabel — they hurt so — 
and you can’t unsay them.” 

Isabel did not answer. She sat down to work on 
her theme, but she was far too miserable to accom- 
plish anything. The marks on the page ran to- 
gether in a meaningless jumble. “ I won’t cry,” 
thought the girl. “ Mother’d be distracted with 
both of us at it.” 

She went to the hall door. She could hear the 
low expostulations and consolings of her mother, and 
the continued hysterical sobbing of Fanny, and her 


224 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

fragmentary answers. Isabel went back and shut 
the door. “ To think that I should be such a vixen,” 
she thought; “ almost grown up, and then to get into 
a childish quarrel like this! Poor Fan! She was 
worn to a frazzle. Herr Reuter’s been pushing her 
terribly hard, and it’s dreadful to try to go to school 
and be a musical genius all at once. Nobody ought 
to attempt it.” 

Unable to settle down, she opened the door again, 
and tiptoed down the hall. At Fanny’s door she 
hesitated, then tapped on the panel, and turned the 
knob. Her mother was leaning over the bed. 
Fanny was lying on the white counterpane, crying 
wearily, with long exhausting sobs, as if she could 
not stop. Mrs. Carleton looked up apprehensively. 

Isabel came forward. “ Don’t, Fanny, don’t,” 
she exhorted desperately. “ I didn’t mean — ” 

But Fanny shook herself, in another paroxysm of 
self-pity, and burying her face in the pillows, began 
to cry more loudly than before. Mrs. Carleton 
waved off the intruder. “ Not now, Isabel,” she 
said in a low voice. 

Isabel withdrew from the room. In the hall she 
met Celia, in her night-gown, blinking and staring. 
“ What’s the matter, Izzy? ” she asked. “ Who’s 
crying? ” 

“ Oh, it’s just Fanny.” 

“ Has anything awful happened? ” Celia looked 
up, her small face twisted with distress. 

Isabel groaned. “ You’d think the whole family 
had been poisoned,” she answered. “ No, dearie. 
She’s just tired.” 

“ But she cries so hard.” Celia’s chin quivered. 


225 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

“ Oh, my goodness, Childie-Bird, don’t begin 
weeping, too. I can’t stand it,” Isabel complained. 
“ Come on back to bed.” She took the little girl 
by the hand, and led her into the small room at the 
end of the hall, with its narrow white bed, and the 
doll’s-house in the corner. 

“ Tell me a story,” begged Celia. 

“ No, I can’t, Celia, dear. I’m too tired. Now 
go to sleep, like a good girl.” She kissed Celia, 
and then went back to her own room. Studying was 
out of the question. She put on her kimono and sat 
by the window. The clock showed half-past ten 
when she heard her father come in, and go into his 
study. 

Finally Mrs. Carleton came into Isabel’s room. 
“ I’m in despair,” she said. “ Fanny’s in a miser- 
able state. As soon as I get her quieted, she begins 
crying again. She’s absolutely worn out.” 

“ Mother, I’m desolated,” Isabel replied. “ Isn’t 
there anything I can do? I’d be so glad.” 

“ I wouldn’t risk going in there again. Wait till 
morning. I’ll get my dressing gown on. And I’ll 
tell you what you might do. Go down and make 
some nice cool lemonade for Fanny. She likes it 
quite tart, you know. I believe it will taste good 
to her. She’s almost feverish, she’s cried so much.” 

Thankful to be able to do something, Isabel ran 
downstairs to the kitchen, and busied herself with 
squeezing the lemons, getting out the sugar, and 
cracking the ice for the pitcher of lemonade. While 
she was at work, her father came strolling in. 
“ What are you doing down here at nearly eleven 
o’clock? ” he asked cheerfully. 


226 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

44 I’m making some lemonade for Fanny,” said 
Isabel briefly. 

44 What’s the matter with Fanny? She should be 
asleep.” The professor pulled out his watch and 
looked at it absently. 

44 She’s all right; only a little upset,” murmured 
Isabel. 

44 Over what? Has anything gone wrong? ” 

44 No, nothing very important.” 

44 Well, what’s the trouble, then? ” Fanny’s hap- 
piness was very near to the professor’s heart. 

44 Something I said hurt her feelings.” Isabel 
was very intent on stirring the lemonade in the 
pitcher. 

44 You haven’t been quarreling — have you? ” 

44 I don’t know whether it should be called that; 
we had 4 words,’ as they say.” Isabel smiled grimly. 

44 I’m shocked to hear this.” Professor Carle- 
ton’s tone implied as much. 44 It seems very strange 
that two well-brought-up young women can’t live in 
the same house without squabbling like — like gut- 
tersnipes.” 

44 Oh, father, what a word ! ” Isabel dropped the 
glass which she was lifting from the cupboard shelf, 
and it fell splintered on the floor. She stood shrink- 
ing against the serving-table, her face pale with 
misery. 

44 It isn’t a nice word.” The professor had grown 
pale, too. 44 But the spectacle of two sisters quar- 
reling is not exactly nice, either.” Isabel had never 
heard her father speak in this way before. 

44 I’m terribly sorry for my part in it,” she gasped; 
it seemed as if she had no voice. 44 I’ve said so a 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 227 

hundred times. But I don’t believe it was alto- 
gether and entirely my fault.” 

The professor’s face softened. “ The sort of 
life that young girls live in a busy college circle is 
too much of a strain,” he said tenderly. “ They 
try to do too much. But they ought to be able to 
keep their tempers, anyway.” 

“ Yes, father.” Isabel got a broom to sweep up 
the fragments of the glass. 

“ I’ll do that.” Her father took the broom out 
of her hand. 

Isabel put the pitcher and a glass on a tray, and 
carried them upstairs. 

The contretemps had assumed proportions beyond 
anything she could have expected. She thought of 
the time when she and Fanny had had that coldness 
over the losing of the pearl and coral ring. “ We 
haven’t had a real spat since,” she comforted her- 
self; “ but this seems worse than that. I suppose it’s 
because father didn’t know about that, and his dis- 
approval seems so unbearable.” 

Mrs. Carleton in her dressing-gown met her at 
the door of Fanny’s room. Fanny was still whim- 
pering, but her violent crying had stopped. “ Shall 
I come in,” whispered Isabel, “ and help you to get 
her into bed? ” 

“ No, I think I can do it alone.” There was a 
kind of sternness in Mrs. Carleton’s voice. “ Go to 
bed. I don’t think there’s anything that you can 
do.” 

Isabel went to bed; but she lay awake till long 
after midnight. Her thoughts were not conducive 
to sleep. She questioned herself as to how this 


228 Isabel Garletons Friends 

mountain of resentment and distress had been reared 
out of nothing. Really, what she had said to Fanny 
was no worse than the little teasing things which she 
had blurted out, scores of times before. But per- 
haps that was the trouble — she had let herself go 
once too often. “ I wouldn’t have said those things 
— especially about the violin — to any one but my 
own sister,” she admitted; “ and why should I treat 
my sister worse than I would any one else? As a 
matter of fact, I ought to treat her better.” 

She thought regretfully, too, of the lovely spring 
days, and how perfect she had expected them to be. 
They had not all been ideal. There had been that 
misunderstanding with Meta; and then Meta’s bit- 
terness over her father’s marriage; and now there 
was this absolutely useless wrangle with Fanny, and 
the general disturbance of the harmony of the fam- 
ily. “ It’s too bad,” sighed Isabel, tossing in her 
bed. Only one more thing could happen, and that 
would be having a quarrel with Rodney. She fer- 
vently hoped she might be spared that ! 

The next day was one of strained discomfort. 
Fanny stayed in bed, and was waited on by the fam- 
ily. Every one spoke cheerfully to Isabel, but she 
had the distinct feeling that she was regarded as the 
cause of a very disagreeable family jar. 

She did not go to Fanny’s room, but worked hur- 
riedly on her French theme, and then rushed to her 
classes. She took her lunch at the University cafe- 
teria, so that she could use the noon recess for fin- 
ishing her theme; she was to hand it in before four 
o’clock that afternoon. 

She had just dropped it into the theme-box at her 


229 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

French instructor’s door, when a girl came up and 
spoke to her. Isabel remembered this girl as a Miss 
Turner, who had been in a class with her, earlier in 
the year. “You’re Miss Carleton, aren’t you?” 
asked Miss Turner. 

“ Yes,” said Isabel, wondering what was wanted. 

“ You’re secretary of the Mary Gaylor Ramsay 
Fund ? ” 

“ Yes.” Isabel was alert now, for the Fund was 
a very important thing in her eyes. 

“ Well,” hesitated Miss Turner, “ I just thought 
I’d speak to you about a girl I know — Sylvia Cal- 
derwood, her name is. She needs help so badly. 
She was out of college a long time this winter, when 
her father died, and she lost so much time that she 
has to make it up in the summer session, in order to 
get her diploma — ” 

“ Poor girl! ” murmured Isabel. She was think- 
ing about the lost father, not the lost time, nor the 
diploma. 

“ And she hasn’t any money to go on with. She 
can’t stay for the summer session. She says she’ll 
have to go right to work at something, without finish- 
ing her college course.” 

“ Oh, she mustn’t do that,” said Isabel quickly. 

“ I hope she won’t have to. I — I thought the 
Fund might be able to help her.” 

“ I wish it could,” answered Isabel eagerly. 
“ But I’m sure I don’t see how we can.” She 
thought of the few dollars left in the treasury. 
“ Won’t you give me her address? I’ll go and see 
her.” 

The address was that of a house on West Thomp- 


230 Isabel Garletons Friends 

son Street, where rooms were undesirable and 
cheap. 

“ I might as well go now,” said Isabel to herself. 
“ It will take my mind off Fanny.” She thanked 
Miss Turner, and after attending to a few small 
matters of her own, started down the hill on the 
side leading to West Thompson Street. As she 
walked along, she was thinking of what the Fund 
had accomplished during the year. Mrs. Everard 
had given her the names of several women who had 
signified a willingness to contribute a stated sum 
each year. Isabel had written many letters, in the 
midst of her busy life, and had spent many hours in- 
terviewing girls, and consulting with the other mem- 
bers of the Fund committee. She had rejoiced 
mightily when she had seen the good which the Fund 
was enabled to do for struggling girls; she went 
over the list of them in her mind, as she went on 
her search for Sylvia Calderwood. “ I hope she 
isn’t as badly off as Miss Turner thinks,” she medi- 
tated. 

The house was near the tracks, where the rush 
and tooting of switch-engines made a constant tur- 
moil. Isabel found the number, among a row of 
dingy gray cottages soiled with car-smoke. She rang 
the bell, and a severe, poorly dressed woman came 
to the door. 

“ Yes, Miss Calderwood is in,” said the woman, 
in answer to Isabel’s question. “ I guess you can 
go up. It’s the back room.” 

Isabel climbed the stairs, and knocked at the door 
at the left of the narrow landing. The door was 


231 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

opened by a slender girl in a shabby blue serge dress. 
With very gentle blue eyes she looked inquiringly 
at the stranger on the threshold. 

“You’re Miss Calderwood, aren’t you?” began 
the caller. “ I’m Isabel Carleton. Won’t you let 
me come in and see you? ” 

“ Why, of course.” The girl responded to the 
friendliness in Isabel’s face. “ Come right in.” 

The little room, with its slanting ceiling and its 
one window looking out upon a waste of railroad 
tracks, was furnished meagerly; but the pictures and 
trinkets scattered about showed that Sylvia had come 
from a home of refinement. 

“ I’m going to say at once,” Isabel began as she 
took the chair which was offered her, “ that I’m sec- 
retary of the Mary Gaylor Ramsay Fund — my 
cousin, Mrs. Everard, started it.” 

“ Yes, I’ve heard about it,” said Sylvia. “ It did 
so much for Eleanor Whiting.” 

“ It helped her to stay on in school, and she 
won the Hylas prize for the short-story. Wasn’t 
that splendid? She feels so encouraged, and her in- 
structors in the English Department think she will be 
able to become a writer.” Isabel’s eyes shone at 
the mention of one of the Fund’s successes. “ A 
friend of yours told me about you,” she continued. 
“ And I thought I’d come in and see how you were 
getting on. You don’t mind, do you?” She 
looked over and smiled at Sylvia. “ We girls all 
want to help one another as much as we can.” 

“ No, of course I don’t mind.” Sylvia had sat 
down on the edge of the bed, with her hands clasped 


232 Isabel Carletons Friends 

in her lap. “ It’s good of you. I’ve had a hard 
year — too hard, but I — ” She stopped uncer- 
tainly. 

“ You get your diploma at this coming Commence- 
ment, don’t you? ” asked Isabel, to bring out the nec- 
essary explanations. 

“ No. I expected to, but I can’t. You see, I was 
away so much when — my father — ” 

u Yes, I know,” said Isabel. 

“ Well, I have to finish my work in the summer 
session.” The girl was twisting her fingers nerv- 
ously. “ And I just can’t scrape the money to- 
gether. Mother and my younger sister have only 
enough to live on now, and we’ve scrimped and fig- 
ured, but there isn’t any money for me to go on 
with. Father had only a small salary, you know, 
and he and mother were sacrificing everything to get 
me through college; and his sickness took all he had 
saved — ” 

“ I understand,” said Isabel sympathetically. She 
had seen a good deal, this year, of people’s ambitions 
and sacrifices. 

“ If I could only get through and have the di- 
ploma,” Sylvia went on, “ I could have a position 
in the high school in my home town — and I could 
live with mother and Leona.” Her eyes lighted. 
“ It would be so splendid, and my salary would help 
out so wonderfully. But the school board have a 
rule that they can’t hire any one who hasn’t a college 
diploma — it’s all right, too, that they should be 
careful,” she added, trying to be just, even in her 
disappointment. 

“ Oh, of course, quite right,” said Isabel. She 


233 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

was thinking of the pitiful scantiness of the Fund. 
She went over and sat down beside Sylvia on the 
bed. “ I just feel sure,” she said, in spite of her 
own misgivings, “ that you won’t have to give up 
getting your diploma. You mustn't !* 

“ But what am I to do?” asked Sylvia, with a 
wan smile. “ There isn’t any money, you know.” 

“ We’ll find some — rolling up hill in a barrel, as 
we used to say when we were youngsters. At least 
I’ll see what the Fund can do. You’d take it from 
the Fund, wouldn’t you? ” 

“ Yes, I would,” Sylvia replied with gentle de- 
cisiveness. “I know it’s for that purpose; and 
sometime I can pay it back, and help some other 
girl.” 

“ That would be beautiful,” said Isabel. She 
smiled hopefully as she left Sylvia, but in her heart 
she was gloomy enough. Her misery over Fanny 
had returned, and she was downcast at the thought 
that she might not be able to secure the sum of one 
hundred dollars which was the least that Sylvia could 
get along on, with the final expenses of her college 
course, and clothes sufficient for making a respectable 
appearance. 

“ I can’t ask Cousin Eunice for any more,” Isabel 
was thinking. “ She gives to so many things. I 
don’t know a soul that I could beg a hundred dollars 
from. If I’d only asked Meta to give me the money 
for the Fund, instead of decking me out with furbe- 
lows — that would have helped a good deal.” She 
remembered with a pang the finery which she had 
accepted. “ I can’t ask mother — she could hardly 
spare what she gave in the winter; and Mrs. Mitchell 


234 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

has contributed all she ought. Oh, dear, I wonder 
where it can come from.” 

She walked along disconsolately, up West Thomp- 
son Street, and then across into South Brooks Street. 
As she was passing a large pleasant house, she heard 
her name called, and stopped, looking to see who 
was greeting her. Harriet Plover ran out of the 
house and caught up with her. Harriet was beam- 
ing with happiness. “What do you think?” she 
said, taking hold of Isabel’s arm affectionately. “ I 
passed in that quiz in French that we had yesterday ! 
I didn’t get a very high standing, but I passed on a 
Fair. And that scheme about the verbs is helping 
me like everything, and Monsieur D’ Albert told me 
that I’ll get through in the course, if I keep on mak- 
ing up for lost time ! ” 

She had been talking so fast that Isabel had not 
been able to get in a word. “ I’m perfectly de- 
lighted,” she exclaimed at last. “ I knew you’d be 
all right. You must let me give you a good stiff re- 
view before the finals come on. I’m determined that 
you shall pass in that course.” 

“ So am I,” said Harriet. She had been walking 
along with Isabel. “ The other courses are coming 
out all right. They’re easier, and I am studying 
like mad, just as you said. Oh, Isabel Carleton, I 
am so grateful to you.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Isabel, without smiling. She 
felt humiliated that she should pose as a philanthro- 
pist to Harriet, when she had quarreled with her 
own sister. She felt very small and humble and 
useless just then. 


235 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

“ It isn’t ‘ nonsense,’ either,” returned Harriet. 
“ But you look awfully down in the mouth to-day. 
What is the matter? You’re always so cheerful.” 

“ I feel a little depressed,” admitted Isabel, 
though she could not tell Harriet all her troubles. 
“ I was just regretting as I came along, that I hadn’t 
a wishing-ring or a fairy wand or something. I need 
money for the Fund.” 

“ Oh, the Molly Ramsay Fund — some of the 
girls told me about it.” Harriet looked grave. 
“ Miss Ramsay was your friend?” 

“Yes — my dearest friend.” It was hard for 
Isabel to speak of Molly, even now, after two years. 

“ The Fund has done a lot of good, hasn’t it? ” 
said Harriet quickly, looking away, so as not to see 
the tears in Isabel’s eyes. 

“ We think so. It has saved a number of girls 
this year from overworking or from having to go 
home. We thought we shouldn’t have any more 
demands on us till fall; but now I find that there’s 
a girl who needs help very badly — to get through 
the summer school and get her diploma. And our 
money is all gone.” 

“ What a shame ! ” Harriet looked concerned. 
“ There ought to be some money somewhere.” 
Harriet had not had to worry much about money 
in her short career. 

“ I don’t see now where it’s coming from,” Isabel 
rejoined. “ But perhaps it will turn up. There’s a 
lot of it in the world.” 

“ It doesn’t always seem to get to the right peo- 
ple,” said Harriet, more thoughtfully than was her 


236 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

custom. “ Well, I must go back. But I did want 
to let you know about the standing in French, and 
when I saw you going, by, I just ran right out.” 

“ I’m glad you did,” answered Isabel. “ Come 
over and see us, won’t you? ” 

“Yes, I will.” Harriet left Isabel at a corner. 

“ I do hope Fanny is herself again,” thought Isa- 
bel, as she neared the house. But Fanny was not 
to be seen, and the door of her room was closed. 
Isabel went to her room, to change her gown after 
a strenuous day; then she went to her mother’s room. 
Mrs. Carleton was combing her hair. She had evi- 
dently been lying down on the sofa at the foot of the 
bed. “ Mother, how’s Fanny? ” asked Isabel ab- 
ruptly. 

“ She’s better.” Mrs. Carleton put in the last 
hair-pin, and took up a hand-glass. “ She’s really 
all right. But I thought she needed a good rest, so 
I made her stay in bed to-day.” 

“ Then it’s all straightened out, isn’t it? ” said 
Isabel with relief. “ I’m willing to apologize till 
I’m blue in the face. And I’m glad to know that 
it’s all right.” 

Mrs. Carleton laid down the glass. “ Well, it 
isn’t, exactly,” she said slowly. “ Fanny says she 
won’t touch her violin again, as long as you’re here, 
and doing your work in college.” 

“Oh! She can’t mean that!” Isabel started 
and flushed. 

“ You know how she is. If she makes up her 
mind to a thing, wild horses can’t change it.” 

“ But, mother, that’s preposterous. She can’t 


237 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

give up her music. She has made such a wonderful 
start, and she’s just at the age when she must get 
her technique, and get it right.” 

“ We all know that,” Mrs. Carleton replied. She 
began taking off her muslin blouse. “ Won’t you get 
me a silk blouse out of the box on the closet shelf, 
dear? ” 

Isabel brought the blouse mechanically. “ But, 
mother, she must practice, and make all the progress 
that she can.” 

“ Well, perhaps she will relent when she sees how 
foolish such a notion is,” said Mrs. Carleton, not 
very hopefully. “ I’m sorry this thing happened, 
but we can’t help it now.” 

Dinner was very silent. Fanny did not come 
down. Professor Carleton kept up a perfunctory 
conversation, and his wife and daughter answered 
in as animated a manner as they could. Celia was 
having dinner with Milly Mitchell; and so her lively 
chatter was missing. Melissy’s face seemed to have 
become thinner, and her sharp eyes rested on Isabel 
accusingly. She was very fond of Fanny. 

Isabel studied all the evening, and went to bed 
early, turning over in her mind the horror of Fanny’s 
resolve, and racking her brain to think of some way 
of getting the money for Sylvia. In the morning, 
her mother came in to say, “ Don’t mention this af- 
fair to Fanny at all. Just let it blow over.” Isabel 
was very glad to take this advice. There was a 
constraint between the girls at breakfast, but they 
both slipped out of the house as early as possible, 
with the excuse of school duties. 


238 Isabel Carletons Friends 

The day would have been another gloomy one for 
Isabel, if something very thrilling had not happened, 
just as she was leaving Main Hall at noon. Harriet 
Plover came up to her with a mysterious look on her 
face, and drew her aside, behind the pillars of the 
portico. 

“ There’s something I want to say,” she began 
breathlessly. u You know, I do feel so grateful to 
you, Isabel, and I wanted to do something to show 
it. Now there’s a way for me to do it.” 

'“ How? ’’asked Isabel. “But you know you 
don’t need to on my account,” she said hastily. 

“ Oh, I want to. Well, mother sent me fifty dol- 
lars to get some clothes, and go to a house-party at 
Lake Kegonsah — she suspected that things hadn’t 
been very pleasant, and she wanted to console me, 
I guess. And I’d — I’d like to give you the fifty 
dollars, to help that girl that you were telling me 
about, yesterday.” 

“Oh, Harriet!” Isabel took hold of the 
younger girl’s arm. “ That would be too splendid 
for words. But are you sure you want to give it 
up?” She spoke more uncertainly, for she knew 
Harriet’s love of pretty clothes, and she feared the 
girl might regret her first enthusiasm. 

“ It’s as little as I can do,” returned Harriet, her 
eyes shining with the pleasure of sacrifice. “ I can 
get along without the new clothes. I can see that 
I’ve thought too much about those things, anyway. 
And I do want that girl to finish her college course, 
and get the position that she’s longing for ! ” 

“ Oh, I do, too — so much,” cried Isabel. “ This 


239 


A Bohemian Folk-Song 

money will make all the difference in the world to 
her. She’s just scrimped and gone without, and 
gone without, until it seems as if she couldn’t give 
up another thing. Harriet, this is lovely of you, and 
I thank you ever and ever so much for doing this. 
‘ Great will be your reward in heaven,’ ” she added, 
half laughing. 

“ I’ll just transfer the check to you,” said Har- 
riet. “ And then you can have it cashed and put it 
through the machinery of the Fund. Can you come 
back to the office for a minute?” She drew the 
slip of paper from her purse. 

They turned back into the building, and went to 
the Registrar’s office, where they could get pen and 
ink for the financial transaction. They both looked 
very happy as they came out of the doorway again, 
and walked down the Hill together. 

“ Things aren’t all bad,” Isabel was thinking. 
u Now, if all these other tangles will only straighten 
themselves out as easily, how thankful, how awfully 
thankful I shall be!” 

But when she got home, just before lunch, she 
heard Fanny telephoning to Herr Reuter. “ I can’t 
take my lesson to-day,” Fanny was saying. “ No, 
not to-morrow; no, not next week. I’m not going 
to take any more lessons — not for a long time — 
two or three years, probably.” She was giving cool 
replies to what evidently were scandalized protests 
from her teacher. 

Isabel ran upstairs, so that Fanny might not know 
she had heard. She had a lump of grief and anger 
in her throat. “ She can’t mean it,” she kept saying 


240 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

to herself. “ She wouldn’t be so silly. She just 
wants to punish me for what I said.” But in her 
heart she knew that Fanny was very likely to stick 
to her resolve. 


CHAPTER XIII 

APPREHENSIONS 

<4 1V/r ETA HOUSTON isn’t afraid of anything, 
i s she?” said Caroline Harper to Isabel, 
as they paused between classes. She was referring 
to the play in which Meta was to appear. “ She’d 
just as soon appear on the stage as on the campus, 
I believe.” 

“ She really is rather shy,” said Isabel. “ But 
she’s proud, too, and puts on a bravado that she 
doesn’t always feel.” 

“ It hardly seems so,” Caroline answered. “ She 
acts as if she didn’t care a rap for any one’s opinion. 
I think it’s stunning, the way she strides along and 
keeps her chin up — I admire her immensely; but 
she does seem haughty and indifferent.” 

“ Well, she isn’t. I can’t help what she seems,” 
said Isabel. Meta and Caroline had never got on 
very well together, and Meta had a trick of hiding 
her real self, if she thought a person critical or un- 
sympathetic. 

A little later, Isabel was in Meta’s room, having 
a hurried gossip, for they were both so busy that 
they had little time for talk. Meta suddenly put 
her hand on Isabel’s arm, with a nervous gesture. 
“You’ll stand by me, won’t you?” she said. “I 
just know I’m going to fail.” She was living in a 
241 


242 Isabel Carletons Friends 

constant dread of failure, and of burning worry over 
her father’s marriage. 

“ I’ll be your prop and stay,” responded Isabel. 
“ But how any one can worry, when she has a gown 
like the corn-colored tulle, to wear in the last act, is 
more than I can see.” The dress had been finished, 
and sent home, and was now lying on Meta’s bed. 
“ It couldn’t be prettier if Lady Duff-Gordon had 
made it.” 

“ Well, what’s the use of having a yellow dress, 
if you have to have a step-mother, too?” inquired 
Meta whimsically. 

“ There are very much worse things,” said Isabel 
with severity. “ I can see in your eyes that you’ve 
heard more about her, and that you’ve been keeping 
it from me.” 

“ I have heard,” admitted Meta, rather shame- 
faced. “ She’s been at the head of a girls’ school in 
Seattle. Father met her at somebody’s house, and 
liked her and went to see her, and — ” 

“ And now they’re going to be happy ever after,” 
Isabel finished, when Meta hesitated. 

“ Probably. She can’t be so very dreadful,” said 
Meta slowly. 

“ Oh, shame ! She must be fine. I know you’ll 
like her. Has she written to you?” Isabel was 
relentless. 

“ Y-yes, she’s written me, of course.” 

“Was it a nice letter?” 

“ Oh, it was all right. She said what any one 
would say under the circumstances, I suppose.” 

“ What was that? ” 

“You know — that she wanted me to like her, 


Apprehensions 243 

and all that. Why should she expect me to?” 
Meta’s anger was flaming up again. “ She’s never 
done anything to make me like her. She takes my 
father away from me, and then writes in that smug 
way that she wants me to be fond of her. Not I. 
I won’t pretend to, either.” 

Isabel was distressed. “ Can’t you assume a vir- 
tue if you have it not? ” she asked. 

“ I couldn’t if I wanted to. But I won’t be such 
a hypocrite.” 

“ Not even to please your father? ” To Isabel, 
pleasing one’s father was almost the greatest con- 
sideration in the world. 

“ Has he tried to please me ? And anyway, you’d 
be the last to approve me if I went in for hypocrisy, 
Miss Carleton.” 

“ Of course, Lady Clara Vere de Vere. But why 
be a hypocrite? Like the poor soul all you can. 
She hasn’t the easiest time on earth, trying to be a 
mother to a high-headed minx who fights oft every 
attempt at friendliness.” 

“ So that’s what I am, am I — a high-headed 
minx!” Meta drew away from Isabel. Her 
cheeks were scarlet, and her head was high indeed. 
She walked to the window, and stood looking out. 

Isabel was a bit scared at her own boldness, but 
she stood her ground. “ What I said wasn’t an 
atom too strong, and I won’t take it back,” she 
thought. She waited for Meta to speak. 

Meta turned, and pulled Isabel down on the sofa 
beside her. “ Oh, you’re not going to desert me, 
are you, Goldilocks? ” she questioned tremulously. 

“ Desert you? Never while I breathe ! ” Isabel 


244 Isabel Carletons Friends 

was relieved at Meta’s change of mood. “ I 
couldn’t do that. But I want you to make yourself 
and other people as happy as possible.” 

“ You ask the impossible,” Meta pouted. 

u Very well. Let’s not say anything more about 
it. Are they going to be — married soon?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ Oh ! And they’re coming on here? ” 

“ In time for the play — a day or two before, 
and then they’ll stay till it’s over.” Meta was 
staring at the carpet. “ Father says I’m not to 
meet them at the station. I suppose he thinks it 
might be embarrassing. They’ll leave their lug- 
gage at the hotel, and then come up here to see me.” 

u That ought to work out well enough. You’ll 
find that everything will be all right, Meta,” said 
Isabel optimistically. 

“ It’s easy for you to think so,” muttered Meta. 
Isabel felt reproved. Other people’s troubles did 
seem a good deal simpler and more readily disposed 
of than her own ! 

She began to chatter very fast about the impend- 
ing examinations, and the festivities which crowded 
in toward the end of the school year. 

Things at home had settled down to a constrained 
appearance of harmony. Fanny was back in school, 
but seemed unusually quiet and subdued. Her color 
was not so high as it had been; her eyes, when they 
met Isabel’s, were cool and staring, or else they 
showed a pained expression and turned suddenly 
away. For several days there was nothing said 
about the late unpleasantness. The violin was 
silent. Fanny studied her high school lessons in- 


Apprehensions 245 

dustriously, read aloud to Celia, and performed more 
little tasks than usual, about the house. Isabel had 
an aching sense of guilt, although she still could not 
agree that she had been entirely in the wrong. 

After dinner on Monday, Professor Carleton said 
gravely, “ Don’t you want to play a little for us, 
Fanny, before we scatter?” 

Fanny looked up from the nut which she was 
cracking. “ I’d rather not, father,” she said stiffly. 
“ Please excuse me.” 

“ What if I don’t excuse you? ” answered the pro- 
fessor in a stern way which was unusual with him. 

“ You must, father.” Fanny put down the nut 
without eating it. Her chin quivered, and her 
breast was heaving ominously. 

“ Oh, very well,” said Professor Carleton hur- 
riedly, as if he feared another hysterical outburst. 
“ But I hope you’ll think better of this, my child.” 

Fanny did not answer, but got up and left the 
table. Mrs. Carleton’s eyes followed her mourn- 
fully. 

“Can’t anything be done?” asked Professor 
Carleton, in an irritated tone. “ This is too pain- 
ful. I can’t understand it.” 

“ It’s so needless,” wailed Isabel. “ There’s no 
reason in the world why she should act like this.” 

“ I can’t believe it will go on,” said Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ I’ll try arguing with Fanny, as soon as I can. 
Perhaps I’m cowardly, but I can’t stand seeing her 
cry.” 

“ No doubt a few days of letting up on her music 
will do her good,” said the professor. “ But I wish 
it might have come about in some other way.” 


246 Isabel Carletons Friends 

For consolation, during these vexatious days, Isa- 
bel fled to her garden. Rodney came over, late the 
next afternoon, and was helping to clear away the 
weeds which had sprung up after a warm rain. 

“ The weeds make a better showing than the 
plants,” complained Isabel. “ They work so hard 
to get their share of air and earth that I feel almost 
cruel in pulling them up.” 

“ I don’t,” Rodney answered sharply. “ They’re 
out of place, and so they have to go — and good 
riddance. That view of yours is purely sentimen- 
tal.” 

“ I believe it is,” conceded Isabel, stopping in the 
process of weeding, to stare thoughtfully at the 
ground. “ I don’t want to be a sentimentalist. 
That means that one ignores a larger issue for the 
picturesque appeal of a smaller one.” 

“ Yes, that’s a good way to define it. It’s like the 
people who shed tears over the imaginary sufferings 
of an ant, and then forget to give the cow a good 
drink of water.” 

“ Well, here go the weeds, then.” Isabel began 
vigorous onslaughts upon the intruders. u And may 
they wither away into nothingness ! ” 

“ So say I,” supplemented Rodney. 

They worked on silently for a while, as the wind 
rustled the branches of the trees at the foot of the 
yard. “ I heard indirectly from Mr. Shelburne,” 
said Isabel, speaking of what was in her thoughts. 
“ You know, I’ve told you a number of times about 
Mr. Shelburne, whom I met down at Tibbies Green, 
when I was in England.” 

“Yes, I know. What’s the news about him?” 


Apprehensions 247 

Rodney had never been very keen for hearing about 
Edwin Shelburne. 

“ He’s been awfully fortunate in getting through 
safely, so far. He wrote a long letter to Mrs. Grel- 
lock — she was Miss Brookert, you know — and she 
sent the letter on to me. It was written about a 
month ago, of course — but he was all right then.” 

“ Where was he? ” 

“ On leave, in Paris. He’s been through some 
fearful experiences. It seems hideous to think of — 
he was such a quiet cultivated young man — to be 
in such dreadful conditions — such horrors — ” 
Isabel grew incoherent. Rodney worked intently, 
without saying anything. “ But he says,” Isabel 
went on, “ that the later stages of the war won’t be 
so hard on the soldiers, for everybody will be better 
prepared.” 

“ Let us hope so ! ” breathed Rodney fervently. 

“ He says a good deal about the wonderful fight 
the Canadians have put up. He thinks that when 
the war is over, he’d like to come out and settle in 
Canada — or the United States, even, if the Ameri- 
cans are anything like the Canadians. Of course, 
Mr. Grellock is a Canadian, and Mr. Shelburne is 
devoted to him.” 

“ He has yet to see what the Americans can do,” 
said Rodney, pulling out a weed with unnecessary 
vigor. 

“ And he says,” — Isabel spoke slowly, almost 
painfully — “he’s sure we’ll be in it before it’s 
over.” 

Rodney stood up suddenly. Isabel, crouching be- 
tween the rows of marigolds, looked up at him 


248 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

anxiously. “You don’t think so, do you?” she 
asked. 

“ Yes , I think so. But I don’t know that my opin- 
ion counts for any more than Mr. Wilson’s. He 
hasn’t consulted me as to my views on the subject.” 
Rodney smiled down at Isabel. 

u I think it will be over before we have to get 
into it,” cried Isabel, clasping her hands. “ I feel 
sure it will. We can’t have war. Why, the United 
States has always been such a peaceable nation, and 
left everybody else free to go their own way. We 
don’t want anybody’s territory, we don’t want any- 
body’s glory. All we want is to be let alone.” Isa- 
bel had risen now, and was facing Rodney with a 
sort of defiance. 

“ That’s all very well,” answered Rodney sol- 
emnly; “but there comes a time when people have 
to want more than just to be let alone. There are 
a good many more values in a nation’s life than that. 
A big world power has its duty to the world.” 

“ Yes, of course,” said Isabel. “ But — ” 

“ Don’t be a sentimentalist, Isabel,” retorted Rod- 
ney. “ Don’t ignore the larger issue because of the 
appeal of the smaller one.” 

“ Oh, Rod, it might mean — so much ! ” Isabel 
burst out. 

“Yes. It might.” Rodney’s face was hard. 
“ Little individuals don’t count in the great sweep 
of democratic ideals.” 

“ I suppose not.” Isabel was quiet for a mo- 
ment. Then she said contritely, “ I don’t want tp be 
small and selfish.” Her eyes sought the young 
man’s. 


Apprehensions 249 

“ You won’t be, when the time comes.” His eyes 
met hers reassuringly. 

They stood very still, thinking what “ the time ” 
might mean. 

“ Well, anyway,” Rodney went on, as they went 
back to their weeding, “ I must be getting ready. I 
can’t spend my time this summer in camping and 
fishing. Mother insisted on my doing that last 
summer, because I had worked so hard during the 
year, especially catching up all that I had lost in the 
fall. So I may have needed an outing. But this 
year there’s no excuse.” 

“ Not when there’s so much to be done in the 
world as there is now,” Isabel agreed. “ Doesn’t 
the University have plenty of jobs to offer to the 
Engineering students? ” 

“ There are a lot of places for the fellows who 
are graduating; but of course they get the first 
chances. And a good many people don’t want to 
hire a man just for the summer. They want some 
one who is likely to stay on, if he’s any good at 
all.” 

“ Yes, I see. Well, I’m like George Burnham. 
I think there’s a place for everybody.” 

“ Thanks for your optimism. Hi, there’s 
Fanny.” 

Fanny was coming down the path with a plate in 
her hand. It was a part of her martyrdom that 
she should behave in many particulars as if nothing 
had happened. And besides, she had taken vio- 
lently to cooking, of late. “ I thought the farmers 
might be hungry,” she said generously. “ I was 
making some oat-meal cookies, and I brought you 


250 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

some.” She offered the spicy brown discs, on a pink 
plate. 

u How perfectly sa-lu-brious ! ” exulted Isabel. 
u I’m half starved. A thousand thanks, and then 
some.” She helped herself to a cooky, trying not 
to be self-conscious in Fanny’s presence. 

“ Fanny, you’re a real little cook from Cookville,” 
exclaimed Rodney with no simulated enthusiasm. 
“ You’re an angel of mercy, to feed the horny- 
handed sons and daughters of the soil! ” He began 
to eat his cooky with avidity. 

“ I only brought two apiece,” Fanny explained. 
“ They go so fast, anyway.” 

“ Good reason,” said Rodney with his mouth full. 
“ We’ll excuse you for not bringing more, consider- 
ing the size and greediness of the family, and the 
skill of the cook.” 

“ How goes the Battle of the Back-Yard? ” asked 
Fanny, gazing about somewhat disdainfully on the 
scattered and wilting weeds. She looked very 
dainty in her white linen dress. 

“ The Pig-Weeds have gone down, with fearful 
slaughter,” reported Rodney, “ and the Grub-Worms 
are in retreat.” 

“ General Fox led the attack, ably seconded by 
Captain Carleton,” laughed Isabel. “ We’re going 
to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer.” 

“ Don’t break your backs at it,” advised Fanny 
coolly, as she turned to go into the house with the 
empty plate. 

“ How’s Fanny getting along? ” asked Rodney, 
finishing his second cooky. 

Isabel flushed and bent over a row of snap^ 


Apprehensions 251 

dragons. “I haven’t told you,” she began slowly; 
“ it’s worrying me like everything. It seems as if 
I always have some trouble to hold up for your in- 
spection. Fan and I have had a dreadful quarrel.” 

“ Hm,” said Rodney, “ I thought things hadn’t 
seemed quite the same. What was it all about, any- 
way? ” 

“ Well, I hardly know. One things leads on to 
another. I said something that wasn’t very kind, 
and she took it harder than I expected.” 

“Things do go like that. You remember how 
little there really was to our hard feelings last fall,” 
answered Rodney. 

“ Yes, nothing but foolishness and pride.” 

“ I’ll bet it’s the same now. Do make it up if 
you can. Fanny’s such a little trump. Her artistic 
temperament gives her a lot of character, and I sup- 
pose it’s that that makes her able to play so well.” 

“ I know I ought to take that into consideration. 
And I have, too. I’ve done everything I could. 
Mother said she thought it was best just to let things 
blow over. The worst is, now, that Fanny appears 
all right on the outside, so there’s nothing one can 
say.” She felt as if she couldn’t tell Rodney how 
Fanny had resolved to play no more. “ Do you 
think I’m a terrible termagant, Rod?” she asked 
gloomily. “ I didn’t have any idea of making so 
much trouble.” 

“ Of course I don’t think you a what-you-may- 
call-it,” Rodney answered with scorn for the suppo- 
sition. “ I know what it is to blurt out something 
you don’t mean, and then hear it echoing down the 
corridors of time, until you think it’ll drive you 


2^2 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

crazy. Don’t take it any more seriously than you 
have to.” 

Isabel tried to act upon this advice, especially as 
her time was so occupied with preparing for the final 
examinations, and taking part in various college fes- 
tivities that she could not worry “ so much as she 
wanted to,” as she put it to herself with a sardonic 
smile. 

It was the custom at Jefferson to have a Spring 
Festival on the Upper Campus on some selected eve- 
ning at the very last of May. This year, Isabel was 
one of the girls who were to take part in drills and 
dances of which the Festival chiefly consisted. It 
was something of a sacrifice to give the extra time 
to this event. Isabel had a small solo dance to pre- 
pare, which, however, did not give her a great deal 
of apprehension, since the steps were easy for her, 
and the time of practice went in with her regular 
gymnasium work. 

On the evening of the Festival, the weather was 
fortunately perfect. The Carletons, like every one 
else, had an early dinner, so that they might hurry 
away. Even before they had finished, the sound 
of tramping feet could be heard: Crowds were going 
early, for there were no reserved seats, and the rows 
of camp chairs filled very soon. 

Isabel did not even wait for her dessert. “ I’ll 
run on, mother,” she said, “ so that I shan’t be the 
one to keep the girls waiting.” 

u Very well. We’ll all be starting in a few mo- 
ments,” Mrs. Carleton replied, “ for we want to 
have good seats, where we can see you.” 


Apprehensions 253 

As Isabel hastened up the Hill, a fresh breeze was 
blowing from the lake, and slanting lines of light 
fell through the trees on the sloping sward where the 
crowd was assembling. 

In the gymnasium, the girls were running about, 
getting their wands and garlands for the drills, put- 
ting their wraps into lockers, rearranging their hair, 
and preening themselves like a flock of white birds. 

Iola Fleming was looking unusually attractive in 
a soft white voile gown, with a blue sash which was 
a part of the glory of a certain figure in one of the 
dances. “ Wonderful weather,’’ she said fervently 
to Isabel (Iola was usually fervent). “Are you 
worried about your solo?” 

“What would there be to worry about?” an- 
swered Isabel in the aggressively practical tone which 
she was tempted to use with Iola. “ I know the 
steps, and I am not so important a part of the affair 
that I need to think much about myself.” 

“ Well, I always think that when one gets a chance 
to express oneself in an art-form in public, she ought 
to make the most of it,” sighed Iola, putting up her 
hand to her carefully waved hair. “ I told you I’m 
to be class poet, didn’t I? ” 

“Yes, you told me,” Isabel replied; a spray of 
paper apple-blossoms had come loose on her garland, 
and she was fastening the end of the wire. 

“ It’s such an opportunity to show what one can 
do, and to express one’s real self in the highest form 
of art,” Iola went on. She was fond of Using 
phrases which seemed to mean something distin- 
guished. 

“ You’re sure it’s the highest form of art, are 


254 Isabel Carletons Friends 

you ? ” smiled Isabel, who had now made the spray 
fast to the foundation. 

Iola opened her eyes wide. “ Poetry? Why, of 
course.” 

“ Perhaps she means your poetry,” said Caroline 
Harper shrewdly. She was standing near, in a 
very effective costume, representing that of a Tyro- 
lean peasant. She was to take part in a folk dance. 

“ I didn’t mean anything in particular,” Isabel 
hastened to say, for she surmised that she had meant 
just what Caroline had suggested. “ How nice you 
look, Caro. Those peasant costumes are so charm- 
ing. I wish we could wear them all the time. 
They’re a lot nicer than the silly clothes we wear. 
Don’t you think so? ” 

“ Yes, I do,” said Caroline. She had improved 
greatly in the last two years. Her face was 
smoother and kindlier, and her figure was more 
shapely. “ I think women’s clothes are dreadfully 
silly as they are now, and so expensive. Don’t you 
think it would create a sensation if I walked into 
class in this rig? ” 

“I suppose so,” admitted Isabel; “but I don’t 
see why we can’t wear what we want to, within rea- 
son. Conventionality is the bane of life.” 

“ Let’s all try wearing what we like,” said Caro- 
line, who disliked to give up the becoming costume 
which she was wearing. 

“Yes, our families would be so pleased!” re- 
sponded Isabel. 

“ Oh, there’s the signal! ” cried some of the girls. 

The groups that were to be in the first part of the 
performance marched out upon the campus, between 


Apprehensions 255 

the Law Building and Old South Hall. Men ushers 
in caps and gowns were hurrying stragglers into ad- 
vantageous positions, and waving back spectators 
who pressed too far forward upon the sward re- 
served for the dances. A bevy of men students 
were giving a sky-rocket for the President of the 
University, who was just taking the seat which had 
been kept for him. He was a large man with bent 
shoulders and a dark bushy beard which gave him 
the look of a farmer in his best clothes. 

Siss-s-s-s! Boom! A h-h-h-h-h — Prexy! the 
shout went up. The President tried to look as Mr. 
Roosevelt says he does when he is being introduced 
from the platform — “ like an absent rabbit.” 

“ Heavenly evening,” whispered the girl at Isa- 
bel’s elbow. Iola and Caroline had gone with their 
respective groups. 

It was not yet dusk, and yet a softness had settled 
over the campus. Even the scrape of the street-cars 
turning the corner at the foot of the Hill seemed 
subdued and unassertive. 

Quiet came over the crowd. A small orchestra 
began a marching tune. The Maypole, with its gay 
streamers, stood in the center of the sward. A line 
of girls filed out silently on the grass, their white 
gowns vivid against the green. Isabel, at the head 
of the line, stepped forward and lifted the first 
streamer; the others followed, holding out the 
streamers like the stripes of a tent. Then, with a 
quick rhythmic motion, they began to tread in and 
out, winding the streamers into a criss-cross pat- 
tern on the pole. Slowly the pattern crept down, 
while the complicated twistings and treadings con- 


256 Isabel Carletons Friends 

tinued, till at last the dancers stood in concentric 
circles against the pole, which was clothed in the 
gay pattern of the intermingled stripes. 

And then the music changed. The girls set their 
faces in the opposite direction, and began to unwind 
the streamers, with beautiful undulating motions, 
showing the graceful turns of arm and shoulder, and 
the quick fluttering of skirts blown about by a gust 
from the lake. At last they dropped the streamers 
and fled from the scene, to the sharp clapping of 
hands. 

Now there was an excellent drill of girls with 
colored wands. Then came the figure which Isabel 
loved, a spring dance of maidens with garlands of 
pink flowers. She mingled with the dancers in a 
trance of delight. In and out and round and round 
they moved, with a multiplicity of intricate steps. 
Then they flowed back, and formed a half-circle, 
with arms interlaced, and garlands festooned from 
arm to arm. 

Isabel tripped forward into the half-circle, her 
white dress and pink wreath starring the now dark- 
ening grass. Her solo was a light nymph-like dance 
of swift moods and changes, varying to the throb 
of the music. Back and forth she trod, in ecstatic 
abandon; and while she danced, another girl came 
out from the circle, and joined hands with Isabel; 
then another, so that the trio beat the grass with 
noiseless feet. At a call in the music, the others 
swept forward and enveloped the three; and so the 
dance circled itself out in a cloud of girlish shapes. 

Isabel, panting lightly, sat down on the edge of 
the sidewalk, to watch the next number, the folk- 


Apprehensions 257 

dance in which Caroline was taking part. Other 
dances followed in their order, and then came the 
final drill. By this time the darkness had begun 
to settle down upon the festival-makers. Arc lights 
burned yellow through the trees, buzzing and mut- 
tering, while great beetles hovered round the glow. 

The shadows between the buildings had become 
caverns. A cold wind blew in across the campus. 
Isabel shivered in her thin white gown. The mu- 
sicians were playing from memory, for they could 
not see their notes. 

The concluding dance was an odd sober rhythm, 
which died out slowly while the dancers flitted by 
twos and threes into the shadows. The music sank 
lower and lower, fitting itself to the deepening 
shades. With the last low thrum-m-m , the last 
naiad-like figures disappeared, and for a moment the 
audience sat breathless, under the spell of the twi- 
light. Then there was a sudden movement. The 
shoving of chairs mixed with the chatter of praise. 
The crowd was breaking up, and hastening away. 

A voice spoke behind Isabel. “ I was lucky to 
find you in all this pow-wow.” Rodney Fox stood 
at her side, with a light wrap over his arm. 

“ Oh, Rod! you startled me,” cried the girl, who 
had not yet quite come back from the absorption of 
the last dance. 

“ Your mother sent this coat. She brought it 
along, in case you might be cold, and she asked me 
to find you,” said Rodney. 

“ She must have thought you a sleuth.” Isabel 
slipped her arms into the coat, and drew its com- 
forting warmth around her shoulders. “ Oh, that 


258 Isabel Carletons Friends 

feels good. I left my sweater in my locker at the 
Gym. I shan’t bother to get it to-night.” 

An attendant was gathering up the garlands and 
wands, so that the girls might not have to go back 
to the Gymnasium, for this was a study-night. 

“ I liked your dance,” said Rodney simply. 

“ Oh, did you? I’m glad.” Isabel replied some- 
what absently, though Rodney’s praise was always 
sweet to her. 

They walked on over the swell of the Hill, and 
down the curving walk to University Avenue. The 
greater part of the crowd had gone the other way, 
down State Street. The smell of the water, of the 
freshly cut grass, and of a wild grape vine in bloom 
were vaguely mixed in Isabel’s mind. Rodney was 
as silent as she, while they made their way through 
the brilliant spaces of light thrown by the arc lamps, 
and the black shadows under the trees. 

“ Come on in and have something,” suggested 
Rodney, when they came to the shining front of the 
drug store on the corner, where young men and 
women were crowding in for ice cream and soft 
drinks. 

“ I don’t mind. I didn’t have any dessert,” Isa- 
bel assented. 

They went in and sat up at the marble counter. 
College students in white linen coats (boys who were 
“working their way through”) were serving the 
thirsty groups. Isabel ate her orange-ice without 
saying much. The bright lights, and the inconse- 
quential chatter seemed out of place, for she was 
still under the spell of the dance in which she had 
taken part. 


Apprehensions 259 

44 How’s Fanny? Any relaxation of her stem 
resolve?” asked Rodney more seriously than his 
words would indicate. 

“ None whatever. Any signs of a job? ” 

44 Nothing on the horizon.” 

When they reached home, Isabel was rather glad 
that Rodney could not come in. 44 I’ve got to study 
like a savage,” he explained. 44 Carmichael is going 
to give us a terror of a quiz to-morrow.” 

Isabel went on into the house, and slipped upstairs 
to her room without going into the sitting-room. 
She did not wish to talk, or to lose the happiness 
which the evening had given her. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE STEP-MOTHER 

M ETA was so busy during these last days that 
she had not much time to brood over her 
father’s marriage; but she had fits of gloom, and 
long lapses into silence which Isabel found very 
difficult and vexing. Meta had said little or noth- 
ing about the approaching visit of her father and 
step-mother, and Isabel was hoping that she herself 
might not be drawn into the first meeting. It seemed 
to have been so arranged that she could exclude her- 
self without difficulty. 

However, she was not to escape so easily. Late 
one afternoon, she was working hard on the last 
French theme of the year, when she was interrupted 
by a call to the telephone. The voice that came 
over the wire was Meta’s, but unusually strained and 
tremulous. 

“ Won’t you come over? ” asked Meta. 

“ Now, do you mean?” answered Isabel. 

“ Pretty soon. About train-time.” 

“ Why, I don’t know. Are you sure that you 
want me?” Isabel disliked refusing, but she had 
a real dread of this family complication of the 
Houstons’. 

“Yes. I’ve decided that I want you here when 
they come.” 


260 


The Step-Mother 261 

“ Oh, Meta, I don’t want to intrude,” cried Isabel. 
“ I’m sure they would think me in the way.” 

“ No, they wouldn’t. They’d be immensely re- 
lieved to find some one else here. I’m certain of 
that.” 

“ I’m not so certain. I’d be glad to be there, if 
I could help you any, you know. But I’d only make 
things worse.” Isabel found herself yielding, 
but she was determined not to give in without a 
struggle. 

“ Do come,” pleaded Meta. “ I’m in a perfect 
panic.” And then she added accusingly, “ You 
promised not to desert me, you know.” 

“ All right. I’ll come,” said Isabel. “ How 
soon? ” 

“ In half an hour.” Meta’s tone showed her re- 
lief. 

“ I’ll be there.” 

“ Thank you.” 

Isabel hastily finished the first draught of her 
French paper, and put on her hat to run over to 
Meta’s. She found her friend sitting before her 
study table, fingering her books and papers. She 
sprang up as Isabel appeared at the open door of 
the sitting-room. “ Oh, I’m so glad to see you ! ” 
she cried. 

“ I don’t see what I can do in a case like this,” 
said Isabel soberly. 

“You don’t have to do. You can just he. 
They’ll be here in a minute. The train came in 
quite a while ago. I telephoned to the station.” 
Isabel stood looking out of the window. The room 
was quiet, except for the nervous tapping of Meta’s 


262 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

foot against the floor. Then they heard the crunch- 
ing of a taxicab on the gravel in front of the house, 
and the whir of the motor. “ There they are ! ” 
said Meta calmly; but she was pale and breathless. 
“ I didn’t think it would make me feel so,” she said 
apologetically, with a catch in her voice. 

“ I’ll wait here,” said Isabel. 

Meta ran downstairs, and Isabel could hear only 
the confusion of greetings — the resonant voice of 
a man, the low pleasant voice of a woman, Meta’s 
hurried words. “ Oh, I hope it’s all right! ” Isa- 
bel was hopping up and down, with her hands tightly 
clasped. 

Now the others were coming up the stairs, and 
Isabel caught a few perfunctory phrases about the 
train, the hotel, the disposal of luggage. The 
woman who entered the next minute was not young. 
She was a slender, almost frail lady, with soft brown 
hair and blue eyes. She wore a traveling suit of 
dark blue silk, and a very handsome hat with white 
plumes. As she stood in the door, she looked earn- 
estly at Isabel. Behind her came Meta and her 
father, who looked like the picture on Meta’s 
dresser, though more interesting. His eyes were 
dark and searching, and his clipped mustache showed 
a firm but rather melancholy mouth. He wore ex- 
cellently fitting clothes; and Isabel noted the cluster 
of diamonds in his black satin tie. 

“ This is my best friend, Isabel Carleton,” said 
Meta in a constrained voice. Isabel felt at once 
the awkwardness of a situation which was not “ all 
right.” 

“ We’re very happy to know Meta’s friend.” 


The Step-Mother 263 

Mrs. Houston extended a cordial hand. Isabel 
liked the sincerity of her tone and gesture. 

“ Meta has told me about you many times,” said 
Mr. Houston, giving Isabel’s hand a firm, quick 
squeeze. “ I believe she lives with the Carleton 
family more than she does here.” 

“ I’ve certainly enjoyed knowing Meta,” returned 
Isabel, trying not to feel the distinct coolness in the 
air. “ I could shake Meta ! ” she was thinking, 
while she murmured another polite phrase or two. 

“ Sit down,” said Meta with an effort, to Mrs. 
Houston; “and won’t you take off your jacket? 
Find a chair, father.” 

“ We aren’t going to stay just now,” answered 
Mr. Houston gravely. “ It’s almost dinner time. 
We want you and Miss Carleton to go to dinner with 
us at the hotel. We can have a visit down there.” 
His eyes were not skillful in concealing the hurt 
which his daughter’s very evident hard feeling had 
caused. 

“ That would be splendid,” responded Isabel 
quickly. “ But are you sure that I shan’t be an 
intrusion? ” 

“ We want you,” said Mrs. Houston gently. Isa- 
bel saw that Meta had been right. The newcomers 
were both relieved at the presence of a fourth person. 

“ I shall have to telephone mother,” said Isabel. 

“ And I must get my hat on,” said Meta. She 
turned to go into her bedroom. Isabel, watching 
Mrs. Houston, saw a look of wistful eagerness in 
the woman’s face. There was a little hurt there, 
too, but a patient willingness not to be grieved until 
she was forced to be. 


264 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

“ She’s longing to have Meta love her! ” Isabel 
thought. She took up the desk telephone, and called 
her mother. “Is that you, Mumsey?” she said. 
“ Well, you know who this is. Mr. and Mrs. Hous- 
ton have asked me to go to the Park Hotel for din- 
ner. Is that all right? . . . I thought you wouldn’t 
mind. . . . Yes, I’ll be home early. . . . Did you 
have a good time at the tea-party? . . . I’m glad of 
that. See you soon. Good-by.” 

Meta came out of the bedroom, putting on her 
gloves. Her straight haughty young figure had 
grown more unyielding since she had been alone in 
the other room. Her face had a frozen look which 
horrified Isabel. “ I’m ready,” said Meta. “ I 
don’t want to hurry you, of course — ” 

“ You have pleasant rooms here, haven’t you? ” 
said Mrs. Houston, rising. 

“ Yes, I think I’m very fortunate,” rejoined Meta, 
looking about the comfortable apartment in a busi- 
ness-like way. Her eyes would not meet her step- 
mother’s. 

“ Nothing is too good for our girl,” commented 
Mr. Houston, fixing a sharp gaze on his daughter’s 
face. 

“ Nice old Dad,” said Meta, going over and slip- 
ping her hand under his arm. It seemed as if she 
had begun to soften a bit; but after all her words 
and the slightly caressing motion served only to em- 
phasize Meta’s antagonism toward her new mother. 

They all went on downstairs. The taxicab had 
been waiting, the engine panting impatiently. Very 
silently they settled themselves inside, and the car 
whisked them away to the hotel. 


The Step-Mother 265 

In the dining room they were given a table at the 
side near a window. The conversation at first was 
fragmentary, and chiefly concerned with the orders 
to the waiter. When the waiter had gone, and hope- 
less constraint seemed to be settling down upon the 
party again, Isabel cast desperately about for some- 
thing to say. “ Have you ever been in Jefferson 
before?” she asked, turning to Mr. Houston. 

“ Yes, I was here, over night, nearly two years 
ago,” answered Mr. Houston easily. “ That was 
when Meta first came here. But I really didn’t see 
much of the town. I had business to attend to in 
Chicago, if I remember correctly, and was in some- 
thing of a hurry.” 

“ You didn’t see the University? ” 

“ I just had a glimpse of it. To tell the truth — ” 
he smiled a little — “ I didn’t think Meta would stay 
long. I thought it was just a whim of hers, coming 
here, you know. I had an idea she’d be in a hurry to 
get back to her dramatic school, or perhaps go on to 
New York.” 

“ People who come to Jefferson usually find it 
hard to get away,” laughed Isabel. “ It’s the nicest 
place in the world, you know.” 

But Meta had begun to speak. “ I found that 
if people are going to do anything worth while in the 
world, it’s better for them to have a good educa- 
tion behind it,” she said, looking at her father, and 
still avoiding her step-mother’s eyes. 

“ You agree with her, I’m sure,” said Isabel, in 
order to include Mrs. Houston in what was being 
said. 

“ I’m a great believer in education for women,” 


266 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


answered the lady, who had been sitting very quietly. 
“ You know I’ve been managing a girls’ school, my- 
self. It was rather a hard thing for me to come 
away before commencement; but things were almost 
finished, and my assistant was willing to carry out my 
plans.” 

Here the soup was brought. As the waiter with- 
drew, Isabel said, more to make talk than anything 
else, “ And are you giving up your school alto- 
gether ? ” 

Mrs. Houston looked over at her husband, and 
smiled dubiously. “ I haven’t done so yet,” she an- 
swered, as if she scarcely knew what to say. “ I 
don’t believe I shall. I want to go on directing it.” 

“Why shouldn’t you?” said Isabel eagerly. 
“ The girls need you, I’m sure. I never could see 
why a woman should have to give up all her own 
interests, just because she was married.” 

“ Nor I,” said Mrs. Houston. “ But my hus- 
band isn’t quite convinced. I think he has an idea 
that he is saving me from having to work. He can’t 
understand that a woman could really want to work, 
when she didn’t have to.” 

“ A lot of men don’t see that,” Meta broke out, 
unable to resist a subject on which she had violent 
opinions. “ It’s time for Dad to begin.” 

“ Score one for Mrs. Houston,” thought Isabel. 
“ She’s getting respected, at least, for not wanting 
to be what Meta calls a 1 parasite female.’ ” 

“ Dad’ll have to think it over, if two members of 
his family insist on it,” said Mr. Houston, glad to 
have Meta taking part in the conversation. “ He 


The Step-Mother 267 

may be a trifle old-fashioned, but he’s ready to be 
converted.” 

“ He hasn’t told you, I think,” said Mrs. Houston 
to Meta, “ that things are working out so that he 
can make a permanent home in Seattle, and not have 
to go about so much.” 

“ Those new men that I’ve been training to man- 
age things have turned out better than I supposed 
they were going to,” added Mr. Houston. 

“ Oh, that’s good, father,” said Meta, hardly 
knowing whether to be pleased or not. 

“ That’s one reason why I can go on with my 
school,” said Mrs. Houston to Isabel, under her 
breath, while Meta was questioning her father about 
his new prospects. 

“ Don’t give up the ship ! ” murmured Isabel to 
the lady. They both relished the little flavor of 
conspiracy in the whispered words. 

The changing of plates broke the conversation, 
and there was a season of desultory talk about the 
industries of Jefferson, and the prosperity of the 
University. 

Then Mr. Houston turned to Meta. “ I feel 
guilty to have to tell you,” he said, “ and I may as 
well get it over, — that we didn’t bring you a thing.” 

Meta opened her lips to reply, but before she 
could speak, Mrs. Houston explained, “Your fa- 
ther wanted to bring you a lot of presents from Min- 
neapolis — we saw ever so many things that we 
thought you’d like. But I said, ‘ No, — Meta will 
think we are trying to make her like me, by bringing 
her bribes. We’ll go without presents, and let her 


268 Isabel Carletons Friends 

take us on our own merits.’ ” There was a shy 
and almost pathetic attempt at humor in her voice. 

Meta’s lips twitched. “ I like that,” she said 
simply. “ It would have enraged me if you had 
come with a lot of knick-knacks, like the Greeks 
bringing gifts.” 

“ You were right, Alice,” said Mr. Houston, look- 
ing over at his wife. “ I perceive that feminine 
judgment outruns the masculine. I really didn’t be- 
lieve that a sapphire bar-pin would be scorned by any 
young miss, no matter what her state of mind might 
be.” 

“ Sapphire pins are nothing, beside some other 
things,” said Meta. “ You have quite a lot to learn 
yet, Dad, about the way in which women regard 
things.” 

“ So I see,” remarked the father humbly. 

“ Score two for Mrs. Houston,” Isabel exulted 
within herself. But she said aloud, “ What Mr. 
Houston was saying makes me think of something 
I read the other day: ‘ There are three kinds of men 
who know nothing about women, — old men, middle- 
aged men, and young men.’ ” 

They all laughed. But the constraint had not 
been dissipated. Meta relapsed into gloom, Mrs. 
Houston played nervously with her food, without 
eating, and Mr. Houston resumed his stern and 
grieved expression. 

Isabel desperately brought up the subject of the 
play. “ We’re so desirous of seeing Meta in it,” 
said Mrs. Houston. “ We were afraid that Mr. 
Houston’s business would keep him in St. Paul. But 


The Step-Mother 269 

he was able to see just the people he wanted to, and 
it came out all right.” 

“ That’s fine,” answered Isabel, for Meta said 
nothing. One was left to infer that she thought it 
anything but fine. 

“ It must mean a great deal of work,” Mrs. 
Houston was saying. “ I know that my girls slave 
for weeks at a play, and this is really more important 
and more difficult than theirs — at least, I suppose 
there is a more critical audience.” 

“ They are rather critical,” admitted Isabel. She 
stole a look at Meta, who within the last few days 
had begun to feel the approaches of stage fright. 

When dinner was over — and it seemed endlessly 
long — they all went up to the sitting-room which 
Mr. Houston had engaged. Isabel and Mrs. Hous- 
ton kept up a cheerful conversation, — they had taken 
to each other from the first. Mr. Houston smoked 
a cigar, with his eyes on the ceiling. Meta sat list- 
lessly in a red plush chair, and twisted a ring on her 
finger. 

Presently Meta said, “ I’m sorry, but I really 
must go. I have a dress-rehearsal, you know, and 
it’s a crime to keep other people waiting.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Houston did not protest. They 
rose and stood politely, while the girls put on their 
wraps and gloves. There was a grim look on the 
face of the father, while pain and suppressed longing 
showed in the face of his wife. 

“ Good-night. I’ll call you up in the morning, 
Dad,” said Meta. u Good-night,” she did not even 
shake Mrs. Houston’s hand, but made a pretense of 


270 Isabel Carleton s Friends 

being busy with the buttons of her jacket Isabel’s 
heart was very sore, as she noted her friend’s un- 
willingness to yield even to the demands of courtesy. 
Mr. Houston went downstairs with the two girls, 
and put them on the car. Isabel could scarcely talk 
to Meta, and she confined herself to the barest ne- 
cessities of speech. 

She burst out with it all when she got home. 
“ It’s awful, mother,” she said vehemently. “ Meta 
isn’t exactly rude, you know; she just escapes it. 
But she’s as cold as an ice-berg, and she makes it 
very clear that she isn’t going to melt, no matter 
what they do or say.” 

“ It must be very painful for them,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, with ready sympathy. 

“ It’s frightful. They want to be so kind. I 
shouldn’t blame them a bit if they packed up and 
left. Meta’s too proud to give in, I’m afraid, and 
the visit can’t be much pleasure to them, with her 
acting like a barbaric princess.” She was thinking 
of what Meta had said that night that she and Isabel 
had talked on the porch, after the picnic across the 
lake : “ I’ve always been so stubborn, and so proud 

of the fact that I never gave in ” ; and, “ I haven’t 
any idea that I’ll ever be so meek again — no matter 
what happens.” 

“ I thought that stubborn pride of hers was gone,” 
said Mrs. Carleton. “ She has seemed so subdued 
and reasonable and like other people.” 

“ It’s sufficiently in evidence now. These persons 
with the artistic temperament are enough to drive 
their friends mad.” She was thinking of Fanny as 
well as of Meta. “ But I suppose that in order to 


271 


The Step-Mother 

be sensitive enough to produce an ‘ art form ’ as Iola 
calls it, one can’t be a wooden image in other ways.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Carleton, with a line 
between her eyes. “ But Meta has a good deal of 
common sense, under her temperament, and things 
may come out better than the present situation would 
seem to indicate.” 

“ They may,” assented Isabel hopefully. 

“ We must ask the Houstons up for dinner,” Mrs. 
Carleton went on. “ Possibly I’d better call them 
up now. It isn’t late.” 

The arrangement was soon made, by means of the 
telephone. The Houstons were planning to spend 
the next forenoon in motoring about the country 
near Jefferson, but they had no engagement for the 
evening, and were happy to accept the invitation for 
dinner. 

With a sudden inspiration, Isabel said, over her 
mother’s shoulder, “ Ask Mrs. Houston if I mayn’t 
go around with her a little, to-morrow afternoon. 
Meta has classes, and ever so many things to see to.” 
Mrs. Houston seemed grateful for the suggestion, 
and added, “ Your daughter and I have already be- 
come fast friends.” 

“ I don’t see how any one can be unkind to a 
charming lady such as she is,” said Isabel, after 
Mrs. Carleton had hung up the receiver. 

“ Nor I,” Mrs. Carleton replied. “ Her voice 
and manner show what she is, even to one who has 
not seen her.” 

It was with eagerness that Isabel went down to the 
hotel, in the afternoon, to meet Mrs. Houston. 
The lady greeted her in the gracious way which was 


272 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

one of her indefinable attractions. Mr. Houston 
had gone out; and the girl and the woman were soon 
chatting like long-lost relatives. 

Isabel gathered that Meta had had luncheon with 
her father and mother, but that matters were not 
much improved. “ She’s busy all the afternoon,” 
said Mrs. Houston; “ so she couldn’t go around with 
me, of course. Are you free, or am I keeping you 
from your classes? ” She was putting on the beau- 
tiful hat with the white plumes, as she spoke. 

“ I had only one class, and it came right after 
lunch,” answered Isabel. “ So you’re not keeping 
me from anything.” 

They went out, still chatting, and walked around 
the Capitol Square, noting the impressiveness of the 
State House, and the dignity of its carved pediments 
and friezes. “ Let’s go inside,” suggested Isabel. 
u There are lovely marble fittings, and some good 
mural paintings that show the history of the State.” 

“ I’d like to, very much,” said Mrs. Houston. 

As they went up the long walk, Isabel said with a 
somewhat studied carelessness, “ Meta hasn’t said 
anything about George Burnham, has she? ” 

“No, not to me,” replied Mrs. Houston, “but 
Mr. Houston said that Meta had mentioned him in 
her letters. Who is he? ” 

“ He’s a young man who is one of our little 
group,” Isabel explained. “ He is a graduate of 
the Engineering School, and has been for two years 
in the office of the Department of Public Works, 
here in the Capitol. He’s a friend of Rodney Fox 
— who is a friend of Meta’s and mine.” She 
laughed a little at the complicated relationship. 


273 


The Step-Mother 

“ Oh, yes, I’ve heard of Rodney Fox,” said Mrs. 
Houston, while Isabel wondered what she had heard. 
“ Do you think we shall meet Mr. Burnham? ” 

“ He will probably call at the hotel to see you. 
He must know by this time that you are here,” Isa- 
bel said, as they began the ascent of the flight of 
steps which led up to the huge bronze doors. “ But 
we might stop at his office, and if he isn’t too busy, 
he can take us up and show us the Senate Chamber 
and the pictures.” She wanted George and Mrs. 
Houston to meet without the embarrassment which 
Meta’s headstrong behavior might cause them; and 
she felt so properly chaperoned that even the Pub- 
lic Works office had no terrors for her. “ Don’t 
you think that would be permissible? ” she asked. 

“ Why, I should think so,” smiled the lady, with 
her friendly blue eyes on Isabel’s. “ Let’s try.” 

They found Burnham without difficulty, and he 
came radiantly to the door. His “ I’m very glad 
to meet Mrs. Houston,” and his handshake seemed 
to mean more than he expressed. He was a most 
presentable figure, with his intelligent face, his thick 
unruly auburn hair, and well-fitting but not dandi- 
fied clothes. Without being self-assertive, he had 
an air of energy and vivacity which usually made him 
acceptable to strangers. “ Meta has told me a good 
deal about her father and — mother,” he said. He 
hesitated on the last word, as if wondering what 
term he should use. “ I was going to call at the 
hotel this evening.” 

“ Then I’m very glad to see you now,” said Mrs. 
Houston, “ for we are not going to be in this eve- 
ning.” 


274 Isabel Garletoris Friends 

“ Can you show us about a little? ” asked Isabel. 
u Mrs. Houston would like to see the Capitol, and 
I know so little about it. Are you too busy? ” 

“ No, I’m delighted.” The tone showed that he 
was. “ Wait till I leave a message with my ste- 
nographer.” 

In a moment he joined them, and they walked 
about the corridors, looking at the fine marble work 
and the decorated panels. Then they took an ele- 
vator to the upper stories, where the pictures were 
to be found. Mrs. Houston had a way of winning 
the confidence of younger people. Before they had 
been long together, she had gathered a surprising 
amount of information about both George and Isa- 
bel — more than they had any idea they were giving. 

After the pictures had been inspected, and the 
view from the windows duly praised, they all found 
themselves talking so intimately and so fast that 
they sat down on a marble bench in a hallway, to 
continue the conversation. Many things tripped 
from their tongues, — the wonders of the West, the 
prospects for war, the need of trained men, the 
ambition of George and Rodney to perfect them- 
selves in construction work, the achievements and 
the present interests of Meta. 

“ Poor Meta,” said George miserably, “ she’s 
scared stiff over the play. She seems to be losing 
her nerve. I haven’t seen her for two days — she’s 
been so busy — but the last time I saw her, I was 
worried; she was so nervous and so afraid of fail- 
ing.” 

“ I don’t think it was altogether the play that 
bothered her,” said Mrs. Houston with a downcast 


The Step-Mother 275 

look. “ She hasn’t been pleased about — some 
other things. But we must all stand by her,” she 
continued hastily, “ and see that she does herself 
credit — if faith and encouragement are what she 
needs.” 

“ We can give her that,” said Burnham in a low 
voice. 

“ I suppose we should be very generous with her,” 
admitted Isabel, even though she was vexed with 
Meta. “ She probably thinks she’s having a hard 
trial.” 

“ And if she thinks so, it’s just as bad, for the 
time, at least, as if she were,” said Mrs. Houston 
sympathetically. “ I’m sure we can all afford to 
be patient.” 

George gave Meta’s step-mother a grateful 
glance. When he left them, a few minutes later, at 
the outer door, his bright face was pleased and con- 
tent. 

“He’s a fine young man, isn’t he?” said Mrs. 
Houston, in what Isabel thought sounded like a re- 
lieved tone. “ I’ve been wondering about him, in 
my secret heart, and hoping that he’d prove to be 
the right sort for a friend of Meta’s.” 

Isabel could not help thinking how much better a 
showing George had made than Meta herself; and 
neither could she help admiring the forgiving kind- 
ness of Mrs. Houston. The girl was rejoicing 
within herself that her tiny plot had worked itself 
out so successfully. She had so much hoped that 
the Houstons would like George. 

And now one more episode was to occur before 
the two women separated. Mrs. Houston be- 


Isabel Carleton’s Friends 


276 

thought herself of a spool of silk which she needed, 
for a certain bit of repairing, and Isabel guided her 
to the appropriate shop. When they turned away 
from the counter, after making the purchase, they 
came face to face with a woman who gave Isabel 
a hard glance and was about to hurry by. “ It’s 
Mrs. Colby!” said Isabel to herself. It was the 
woman, a comparative newcomer in the town, whom 
Mrs. Carleton had so blandly insulted by neglect, 
some time before. 

u Oh, Mrs. Colby ! ” said Isabel impulsively. 
She hardly knew what she was going to say. She 
had carried a note to the victim of the insult, but 
Mrs. Colby had been “ not at home,” and had never 
made any response to the note. The injured lady 
now turned a flushed face to Isabel, and then her 
eye wandered to the quietly elegant figure beside the 
girl. There was something about Mrs. Houston 
which commanded respect, and Mrs. Colby dearly 
loved fine clothes. She gave Isabel a stiff nod of 
recognition. And then, as the memory of the inci- 
dent came back to her, Isabel began to laugh — not 
satirically, but merrily and infectiously. “ Oh, Mrs. 
Colby, wasn’t it absurd! ” she cried. “ I want you 
to meet Mrs. Houston — she’s visiting in Jefferson. 
Mrs. Houston, such a funny thing happened at our 
house — ” Breathlessly she began to retail the 
story of the blue silk dress which was to be made 
over, the man from the “ Pantorium ” pressing-shop, 
the grape-fruit and the hymn-tunes, the dreadful 
humiliation of Mrs. Carleton. She was so spon- 
taneously amusing that they were soon in a gale of 
laughter, Mrs. Colby as well as the others. The 


2 77 


The Step-Mother 

saleswomen pricked up their ears, wondering what 
this unusual hilarity was all about. Mrs. Houston 
topped the story with one even more ridiculous, 
about her forgetting some guests whom she had in- 
vited for dinner. 

Mrs. Colby, still appraising the hat and the real 
lace and the pearl-and-diamond pin which Mrs. 
Houston wore, followed the other two out of the 
shop, and stood chatting amiably on the pavement. 
She was palpably rejoicing that an unpleasant epi- 
sode had been disposed of so easily, and that a re- 
sentment of which she had been ashamed need no 
longer be cherished. 

“ Let’s all go into this sweet-shop, and have some 
ice cream,” suggested Mrs. Houston, as her eye was 
caught by the allurements of the “ Palace of Sweets.” 
“ It’s too bad to cut our acquaintance so short.” 
She smiled irresistibly at Mrs. Colby, who accepted 
the invitation with no assumed willingness. They 
had a cheerful and harmonious conversation over the 
chocolate parfait , and Isabel, watching Mrs. Colby’s 
mollified countenance, knew that the unpleasant epi- 
sode was closed. 

As they came out of the sweet-shop, Mrs. Colby 
said, “ Tell your mother, Miss Carleton, that I am 
going to make another attempt to return her call. 
And by the way, when you are planning for your 
Fund, in the fall, come to me. I may be able to do 
something for it.” 

Isabel could have shouted for joy as she went on 
down the street with Mrs. Houston. 

“ Tell me about that Fund,” said Mrs. Houston, 
as they walked back to the hotel. 


278 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

Isabel needed no urging. With her words tum- 
bling over one another, she told about Molly (some- 
how, it did not hurt, this time), and the maid who 
had not gone to Europe with Isabel and Mrs. 
Everard, and the starting of the Fund. Then she 
went on to the splendid things which it had accom- 
plished; and before she knew it, she was telling about 
Sylvia Calderwood and her necessities, and the gift 
which Harriet Plover had so generously made. 
Mrs. Houston’s eyes glowed at the recital. 

“ And now I must hurry home,” said Isabel, a bit 
ashamed of her volubility. Mrs. Houston’s friend- 
liness had drawn her on too much, perhaps. “ I’m 
so glad you are coming for dinner,” she added with 
sincerity. 

“ So am I.” Mrs. Houston held out a small 
white-gloved hand with an affectionate gesture. 

On the car, Isabel was thinking of the pleasure 
she had taken in the company of Mrs. Houston. 
“ Meta ought to see what she is losing by being so 
high-headed,” she said to herself. “ Mrs. Houston 
seems to have a way of adjusting and harmonizing 
things.” And then she chuckled at the thought of 
carrying Mrs. Colby’s conciliatory message to Mrs. 
Carleton. 

At home, she delivered the message, with a shout 
at Mrs. Carleton’s incredulous face, and the thank- 
ful expression which followed the assurance that the 
tale was true, with no joke attached to it. “ I’m 
more pleased than I can say,” sighed Mrs. Carleton, 
after they had talked it all over. “ And now, dear, 
won’t you get dressed as fast as you can, and help 


The Step-Mother 279 

to get the flowers and silver and such things on the 
table? Melissy is preparing what seems to me an 
appallingly elaborate dinner, and she needs help.” 

“ Dee-lighted! ” Isabel fled to her room to put 
on a dainty dress and rearrange her hair. 

She went down to the dining room just in time to 
take a telephone message from Meta, excusing her- 
self from coming to dinner. She was rushed with 
preparations for the play, and would have a hasty 
meal at the University cafeteria. 41 She just doesn’t 
want to come,” thought Isabel. After polite pro- 
tests, and expressions of regret, she accepted Meta’s 
excuses, and turned away from the telephone. 

She hurried to assist with the setting of the table, 
and bumped into Fanny, who was coming in from 
the kitchen with a dish of salted almonds. 41 Oh, 
you’re enlisted in the service, too, are you?” said 
Isabel. 

44 1 haven’t much else to do nowadays,” said 
Fanny drily; 44 that is, after my school work is done. 
I might as well be helping in the kitchen.” This was 
the first time that Fanny had directly referred to her 
giving up of her lessons and practicing. 

Melissy was just coming into the room, to get 
some lace-paper doilies from the drawer of the low- 
boy. But Isabel could not refrain from saying bit- 
terly, 44 If you haven’t anything else to do, it’s your 
own fault, Fanny.” 

44 Of course,” answered Fanny, with tremulous 
self-control, 44 it must be my fault, because every- 
thing disagreeable always is. You never do any- 
thing that isn’t perfect ! ” 


280 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“ Now, Fanny Carleton, — ” Isabel burst out in 
an exasperated tone. 

But before she could go further, Melissy had 
faced the two girls and was pouring out the emotions 
which she had kept bottled up for days past. “ I 
can’t stand it,” she cried with plaintive emphasis, 
“ I just can’t stand it to see things going on like 
this.” She stood crushing the lace-paper in her 
shaking hands. “ Miss Fanny was getting along so 
nice, and was so happy with her music; and Miss 
Isabel was so sweet and friendly-like, and so kind o’ 
light-hearted with her studies, and her garden, and 
her good times. It seems as if it couldn’t be that 
you’d both turned so sarcastic and hard-spoken.” 

The girls were staring at Melissy as if she were 
some stranger who had burst out with this attack. 
Still the passionate words went on. “ I never had 
no home, and no chance to be anybody, and it’s been 
such a treat to stay here with you young folks. 
You’ve been so good to me, it hasn’t seemed as if I 
was working for pay, but just as if I was a — a kind 
of sister or cousin, or something. And it cuts me 
to the heart to see you two at odds with each other, 
like common ordinary girls that never had no train- 
ing.” Fanny and Isabel looked into each other’s 
eyes with a startled glance, and then looked back at 
Melissy. “ If I had a sister,” the maid was going 
on, “ you wouldn’t ketch me squabbling with her. 
I’d just go up to her, and put my arms around her 
neck, and I’d say, 1 1 don’t care who was to blame, 
whether I was, or whether you was, — we got to keep 
on loving each other just the same. There ain’t no 


The Step-Mother 281 

violin nor any high-sterics that can spoil our happi- 
ness,’ I’d say. I know I’m awful forward, to go 
saying such things to you girls, but I can’t keep still 
no longer. I can’t stand seeing you go on like this ! 
Oh, Land o’ Goshen, I bet I’ve scorched my cream- 
sauce ! ” With a wild realization of the havoc 
which her neglect might be causing in the kitchen, 
Melissy made a dive for the swinging door, and was 
gone. 

Isabel was standing stiffly at one side of the spread 
table, and Fanny was gazing hypnotically at her 
from the other. The faces of both had grown very 
flushed and shamed. For a long minute, neither 
made a motion. Then Fanny very deliberately 
turned, and went to the telephone-closet, which 
opened from the dining room. She left the door 
open, while with exaggerated calmness she took 
down the receiver and called a certain number. 

“May I speak with Herr Reuter?” she asked, 
when the proper connections had been made. A 
moment later she was saying, “ Oh, Herr Reuter, 
this is Fanny Carleton. May I have a lesson to- 
morrow — a long one? And may I have three this 
next week? Thank you, ever so much. . . . I’m 
rusty. I haven’t been practicing, but I’m going to 
make up for lost time. . . . Oh, I just thought I’d 
take a vacation. . . . No, I’m all right now. . . . 
Yes, I’ll be there. Thank you, Herr Reuter.” 

When Fanny had finished, Isabel was standing at 
the door. Fanny put her head down on her sister’s 
shoulder for a second, and then she said as if noth- 
ing had happened, “ If we don’t hurry up and get 


282 


Isabel Carletons Friends 


this table set, the guests’ll have to enlist in the serv- 
ice.” A loud crash sounded from the kitchen, as a 
kettle-cover fell to the floor; but Melissy; had burst 
into song. 


CHAPTER XV 

A WAND OF KINDNESS 


HE night of the play had come, and Isabel was 



with Meta in the dressing-room of the Opera 
House. During the day Meta had become more 
and more excited and rebellious, and now she was 
in an intolerable state of tension, obsessed by the 
idea that nothing could keep her from failing. In 
a peacock-blue silk kimono, with heavy embroidery 
upon it, Meta sat in the chair before the mirror, 
twisting her fingers together with every evidence of 


panic. 


“I can’t go on — I can’t!” she was saying. 
44 I’m absolutely in despair. I know I shall fail. 
Oh, if they hadn’t come just when they did ! What 
was the use of their coming on here and ruining my 
peace of mind, at this particular time? ” 

Isabel started to say something about other peo- 
ple’s peace of mind. But she checked herself, and 
said instead, 44 Did you decide to wear that band in 
your hair, in the third act, or not? ” 

44 I don’t know,” answered Meta with an impa- 
tient shake of her shoulders. 44 1 don’t suppose I’ll 
ever get so far as the third act. I’m going to make 
a terrible muddle of this thing. I can’t even remem- 
ber the lines. I shall be disgraced forever.” 

Isabel was pretty well convinced of the same thing, 


284 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

but she did not dare to say so. “ Meta, can’t I do 
anything for you? ” she asked desperately. 

“No, no!” Meta was almost irritable in her 
reply. “ You’ve stood by me like a sister, and I’m 
not worth it. I’m hurting you, and making a public 
failure of myself, but I can’t help it. And nobody 
can do anything for me.” 

“Won’t you — ?” Isabel hesitated. She meant, 
Won’t you see Mrs. Houston, and be friends with 
her? 

But Meta said hastily, “ No, I won’t. I can’t see 
anybody now.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Through 
the thin partition they heard the noise of scenes slid- 
ing into place, the voices of workmen, the buzz of 
gossip from the actors already out of their dressing- 
rooms. 

There was a tap at the door. Isabel glanced at 
Meta, who whispered fiercely, “ I can’t see any one. 
Don’t let ’em in.” 

Isabel opened the door a crack. Mrs. Houston 
stood there, very lovely in a pale blue satin evening 
gown, with a twist of filmy white maline about the 
shoulders. A feathery ornament in her hair gave 
her unusual height and dignity. “ I want to come 
in,” she said, in a quiet tone which showed that she 
was used to being obeyed. 

Isabel lingered in indecision. She feared the 
wrath of Meta, but she could not resist the firm, 
expectant tone of Mrs. Houston. An instant later 
she stepped back and threw open the door. 

Meta had risen, and was shrinking against the 
dressing table, her long silk robe sweeping about her, 



“ My poor child,” she said tenderly, 
we have to love each other? ” 


“ don’t you see that 



N 



A Wand of Kindness 285 

her head very high. She looked forbidding enough 
to awe a less determined soul than that of her step- 
mother. 

“ Can’t I do something for you, Meta?” asked 
Mrs. Houston in a gentle voice. 

“ Nothing that I know of, thank you,” Meta an- 
swered with an adamantine glance. 

“ You aren’t fit to go on as you are,” said Mrs. 
Houston, pityingly. Her keen yet kindly eyes had 
taken in every sign of Meta’s desperate nervous- 
ness. 

“ I should be, if I hadn’t had so much to worry 
me,” returned the girl, with accusing bitterness. 

Isabel looked for some show of resentment in 
Mrs. Houston, at the' injustice of Meta’s remark. 
But the lady only said, “ I’m sorry you have been 
worried, dear.” 

Meta bit her lip. “ Perhaps it couldn’t be 
helped,” she said, seeking to control herself. 

But Mrs. Houston was not listening. She held 
out her arms. “ My poor child,” she said tenderly, 
“ don’t you see that we have to love each other? ” 

Meta faced her for a moment, like a barbaric 
princess, — her eyes blazing, her beauty heightened 
by the rouge upon her cheeks. Then suddenly the 
antagonism faded out of her face. It seemed as if 
the blood faded, too, leaving her cheeks white, with 
the daubs of rouge standing out vividly upon them. 
She trembled, hesitated, and then swept forward into 
the arms waiting to receive her. “ Oh, mother, 
mother!” she cried brokenly. “ Oh, mother, 
mother, mother ! ” 

She was holding the frail lady in her strong arms, 


286 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

and kissing her on the cheek. “ What a terrible 
creature I’ve been. I’m so ashamed, so dreadfully 
ashamed,” she kept repeating, her face hidden 
against the older woman’s hair. They were both 
oblivious of the observer in the room. 

Mrs. Houston was patting Meta on the shoulder, 
and saying, “ There, there, never mind. It’s all 
over now. It’s all over.” Isabel found her throat 
tightening. She turned away for a moment, with 
her forehead against the panels of the door. When 
she turned back, Meta and her mother were both 
wiping their eyes. There was a spot of rouge on 
Mrs. Houston’s cheek, where Meta’s had pressed 
against it. Mrs. Houston was the first to gain her 
composure. “ You must get dressed, Meta, dear,” 
she said. “ It will soon be time for the curtain to 
go up.” 

Meta was half laughing and half sobbing. She 
rearranged her hair before the glass, then wheeled 
and put her hands on the slender woman’s shoul- 
ders. “ The first minute I saw you,” she confessed, 
“ I knew I should love you. I loved you all along. 
But it was my pride — that terrible pride of 
mine — ” 

“ Not yours any more,” said the mother softly. 
“ We’ve seen the last of it. Now get on your dress.” 

“ I’ll help,” said Isabel, feeling that they had for- 
gotten that she was there. Between them, they hur- 
ried the dazed young actress into the rose-colored 
morning-dress, which she was to wear in the first 
act. In a few minutes Meta was herself again. 

She was a radiant picture as she stood before 
them, her face lighted by happiness. “ My mind 


A Wand of Kindness 287 

is clear as air, now,” she said calmly. “ Everything 
is going to be all right.” 

“ We’re sure it is.” Mrs. Houston’s hand was 
laid on Meta’s arm caressingly. 

Miss Henderson peeped into the dressing-room, 
and gave a nod of satisfaction. “ All ready? ” she 
asked. 

“ The sooner it comes, the better,” answered 
Meta with a smile. 

Now the signal ran through the dressing-rooms 
and the wings. The tenseness in the atmosphere in- 
creased. Isabel, Mrs. Houston, and Meta made 
their way to the open space near the entrance through 
which Meta was to make her appearance upon the 
stage. Wilfred Collins was pacing back and forth, 
in the irreproachable business suit in which he was 
to take his part in the first act. Miss Bloch, Miss 
Sellers and others, were hovering about with scared 
faces and uneasy hands. 

All at once, the curtain was up. There were sev- 
eral minutes of talk upon the stage before Meta 
was to appear. She held Mrs. Houston’s hand, and 
Isabel stood back, watching them gratefully. Then 
came the cue for which Meta was waiting. She ran 
lightly out upon the stage. A quick flutter of ap- 
plause attested the success which she had won in 
times past. Isabel saw at a glance that Meta was 
completely at her ease. Her full laughing voice, 
the sureness of her speech and motion, the lack of 
self-consciousness, showed how completely her state 
of mind had been transformed. 

“She’s safe now,” breathed Mrs. Houston; and 
she gave a long sigh. 


288 


Isabel Garleton’s Friends 


“ Perfectly,” whispered Isabel. 

“Aren’t we happy?” murmured Mrs. Houston 
in the space during which, in the play, Meta was sit- 
ting silently at a desk. 

“ As larks,” assented Isabel, gayly. Then she 
added, “ Now that it is started, don’t you want to 
go out in front and sit with Mr. Houston? ” 

“ I will at the end of the act, but not now.” 

Together they watched as the play went on, both 
absorbed in the promise of the young woman whom 
they loved. “ She’ll never be so proud again,” 
thought Isabel. “ This is the completion of the 
year’s development for her.” 

When the act was over, Meta dashed off the stage, 
still in the exaltation in which her work always left 
her. 

“ It’s going beautifully,” said Mrs. Houston with 
glowing eyes. 

“ If you think so, it’s all right,” said Meta eagerly. 
“ Oh, I hope Dad likes it! ” 

“ I’m going out to sit with him now,” Mrs. Hous- 
ton replied. “ I want to see the rest of the play 
from the audience.” 

“ Run along,” laughed Meta, “ and tell Dad — 
you know what ! ” She was anticipating her father’s 
relief over the good news. 

“ Oh, yes. I know.” Mrs. Houston hurried 
away. Miss Henderson was glaring. Isabel went 
with Meta to the dressing-room for the change of 
costume. They said little while the process of 
dressing was going on, and Meta walked back on 
the stage with the utmost self-possession. 

The second act passed as satisfactorily as the 


A Wand of Kindness 


289 

first. The third act was the most dramatic of the 
play, requiring the most careful acting. Now came 
the task of arraying Meta in the corn-colored gown. 
Madame LaVoy, of the Little White Beauty Par- 
lor, was there to arrange Meta’s hair, and gave her 
make-up a touch of perfection. Shoes were changed 
for gold brocaded slippers. “Now!” Isabel 
drew a long breath. The gown went on, and was 
shaken into the right lines. The sash was fastened; 
the laces at the front were pinned with an old amber 
brooch which had belonged to Meta’s own mother. 
A long jet chain and a fan of black ostrich feathers 
brought out the glow of yellow silk and tulle; but 
most of all the beauty of the gown was set off by the 
girl’s dark eyes and hair. Isabel clasped her hands. 
“ Oh, Meta, you’re a dream ! ” she cried. “ I told 
you you’d look like a bird of paradise, and you 
do.” 

Meta smiled absently. She was not thinking of 
her looks, no matter how important they might be. 
“ Go out before the curtain goes up,” she said, giv- 
ing Isabel a gentle shove. “ Hurry.” 

Isabel slipped away and found the seat which had 
been held for her, at the end of the second row. No 
one whom she knew well was near her; hence she 
could stare and listen as she chose. When the cur- 
tain rose, there was a rustle of approval, as Meta 
was disclosed sitting upon a purple velvet sofa. 

Isabel had seen some good acting while she was 
in Europe, but she was not, of course, a skilled 
critic. Meta’s acting seemed to her very excellent. 
What impressed her chiefly was the restraint which 
the young actress exhibited. “ That comes of being 


290 Isabel Carleton's Friends 

too proud to reveal everything she has in her soul,” 
said Isabel. Meta’s motions were not always grace- 
ful; but where she failed in grace, she excelled in 
originality and sincerity. “ I think she’s perfectly 
splendid,” voted the loyal friend. 

Isabel noticed a keen-looking man with Professor 
Lenner — a man of the world, apparently, who had 
a more dashing appearance than most of the Jeffer- 
son folk. He was watching Meta earnestly, and 
now and then he whispered a comment to his com- 
panion. When they came to the scene which Isabel 
remembered particularly, because she had seen it in 
process of creation — the one including the letter, 
and the question, “ Did you write this, Althea? ” — 
the strange gentleman clapped noiselessly at Meta’s 
speeches, and whispered again to Professor Lenner, 
who nodded and beamed. 

“ He likes it,” Isabel decided; “ and I’m sure his 
opinion counts.” 

The play went on smoothly to the end, and it 
seemed as if Meta grew more and more sure of 
herself, more at ease and capable all the time. 
When the curtain fell there was long and enthusiastic 
applause. 

Isabel ran in behind the stage. Meta was an- 
swering curtain calls with Wilfred Collins, who had 
covered himself with glory. But it was apparent 
that Meta was the great success of the evening. 
Her whole radiant personality spoke of relief and 
happiness. Just as she came back from one of the 
curtain-calls, a big sheaf of yellow roses was handed 
to her by a messenger boy. She glanced at the card 
with a quick smile. “ George sent these,” she said 


A W and of Kindness 


291 


to Isabel. She carried them out for her last appear- 
ance, leaving the heap of American Beauties, and 
pink carnations, and lilies-of-the-valley on a bench 
in the wings. 

Miss Henderson, mightily relieved, was flying 
about, shaking hands with every one ; and proud par- 
ents and friends began to pour in through the en- 
trance from the auditorium to the back of the stage. 
The Carletons came in for a moment, and then has- 
tened away, for they had preparations to make at 
home. George Burnham appeared, ill-concealing 
his exultation. “ You take a fellow’s breath away,” 
he said to Meta in a low tone. 

“ He’ll get it back,” Meta answered laughingly. 
He held out his hand, and she laid hers in it for a 
second. 

“ We’re going to have a little gathering at our 
house this evening, in honor of our celebrated 
actress,” said Isabel, “ and you must come along, 
George. Mother told me to ask you.” 

“ Awfully glad to,” said George gratefully. 

Mr. Houston now appeared, looking very distin- 
guished in evening dress. Mrs. Houston stood back 
while her husband took Meta’s hand in both his own. 
“ Good girl. You’ve made us proud and happy,” 
was all he said, but his spirited face expressed much 
more. Mrs. Houston merely gave Meta a hug, and 
said nothing. 

Others were crowding up to offer congratulations, 
and it was some time before Meta could get away. 
In the meantime, Isabel was gathering up clothes and 
trinkets in the dressing-room, and stuffing them into 
a suit-case. 


292 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“ I have a cab for the star,” said Mr. Houston as 
Isabel appeared again, “ and for Miss Isabel — ” 

“ The satellite,” completed the faithful young 
friend. 

The gathering at the Carletons’ was composed 
only of the two families, with Rodney Fox and 
George Burnham. The festive lateness of the 
hour; the abundance of Meta’s flowers, temporarily 
displayed in bowls and jars; the gayety of evening 
dress, made the assemblage unusually vivacious. 
There was ice cream of the rich homemade variety, 
with sandwiches and cake, which Melissy dispensed 
from flat baskets. The rooms resounded with lively 
talk. Meta’s success, and her reconciliation with 
her new mother made the occasion one of particular 
importance to the group of friends. 

Mr. and Mrs. Houston and the two girls were 
eating ice cream on the big sofa in the sitting-room, 
when Mr. Houston said abruptly, as he fixed his 
penetrating glance on Isabel, “ Well, what are you 
going to do this summer, do you think? ” 

“ Stay at home, I suppose,” answered Isabel, 
“ and dig in my garden.” 

“ You’ve guessed wrong,” said Mr. Houston 
decisively. “ Alice, tell her what she’s going to 
do.” 

“ You’re to visit us, in the West, Miss Goldi- 
locks,” said Mrs. Houston simply. 

Isabel jumped, and nearly dropped her ice cream 
into her lap. “ Oh, I don’t think so,” she said hur- 
riedly. “ I’d love to, but I don’t see how I can.” 
She looked uncertainly from one to another of the 
friendly faces. 


A Wand of Kindness 293 

Meta did not seem surprised, so that Isabel sus- 
pected that she was already in the secret. 

“ We want you. We want you very much, my 
dear.” Mrs. Houston laid her hand on Isabel’s 
knee. “ When Meta’s ticket comes, — her father 
always sends her one, you know — there will be one 
for you, too.” 

“ Oh ! ” Isabel looked startled and dubious. 
She did not think she ought to accept so generous a 
gift from these people, who, for all her love for 
them, were not a part of “ the family.” 

“ We can do that much,” said Mr. Houston, u for 
all that you and your family have done for Meta.” 

“ I’m afraid I don’t deserve so much,” said Isa- 
bel, thinking of discords which had arisen between 
her and Meta. “ But I’m wild to see the West, and 
I’d love to be with all of you.” She turned and 
smiled at Meta, who was not saying a word, but lis- 
tening intently. “ I thought when I was asked to 
go to Europe, that that was good fortune enough to 
last a life-time. And now comes this! Have you 
said anything to mother? ” 

“ Yes, I whispered to her when she took me up- 
stairs to leave my wraps,” said Mrs. Houston. 
“ She says it’s all right.” 

Isabel saw her mother giving Melissy directions 
about more ice cream or some such thing. She could 
not catch the maternal eye; but if Mrs. Carleton had 
told Mrs. Houston it was all right, it must be. “ I 
can hardly believe that I’m going,” she said. “ It 
seems too good to be true.” 

“ It’s true, though, and it’s tremendously good,” 
spoke up Meta. “ And, oh, Isabel, we’ll take you 


294 Isabel Carleton’s Friends 

out on a ranch, and up into the mountains, and teach 
you to fish for trout, and to ride a broncho; and 
we’ll show you Helena and Seattle, and the Sound, 
and the totem-pole, and the Indians, and the glaciers, 
and the pine forests, and the gold mines, and — ” 

Isabel was waving her hands wildly. “ Don’t tell 
me any more,” she protested. “ You make my head 
go round. Oh, it’s too lovely to think that I can 
really, really see all those things. It’s like reading 
a novel, and wishing you were the heroine.” 

“You’ll be the heroine of this novel, 7 ’ said Mr. 
Houston with satisfaction. “ And now there’s some- 
thing more.” He looked across the room, to where 
Rodney and George were talking with Fanny and 
Celia — the latter very sleepy, but determined to 
keep awake and not miss anything. He beckoned 
with his plate of ice cream. “ Come over here, 
boys, if the ladies can spare you,” he said. The two 
young men came over to the sofa, Fanny and Celia 
hovering in the background. “ Mrs. Houston, who 
is a sort of fairy god-mother to young people,” Mr. 
Houston began, “ has been telling me that there are 
two young lads about your size who want to get 
engineering jobs for the summer.” Rodney and 
George stared uncertainly. “ Well, I know a man 
who is doing some construction work in the moun- 
tains. He wants chaps like you, who have had the 
right sort of instruction, to help in carrying out his 
plans, overseeing the workmen, and so on. How 
would that suit you? ” 

“ Suit us ! ” shouted the young men in one breath. 
“ That certainly would suit us down to the ground. 
Do you think you could get us in? ” 


A Wand of Kindness 295 

“ Nothing easier,” Mr. Houston replied. “ I 
can fix it in a minute. I’ll telegraph as soon as I get: 
back to the hotel.” He spoke with the ease of a 
man who habitually settles the affairs of others, and 
transacts the most vital affairs by telegraph. 

Isabel and Meta were speechless, but they gave 
each other expressive looks. “What did I say?” 
Rodney was exclaiming. “ Didn’t I prophesy that 
we could carry on our trade on the bank of a trout- 
stream, and under the greenwood tree? ” 

“ Of all the effrontery,” said George. “ You 
were howling calamity, and predicting that we’d be 
cooped up next to a brick wall all summer. I was 
the one who bolstered up your failing hope. Well, 
we certainly are grateful to you, Mr. Houston, for 
helping us out in this way. It’s exactly what we 
were awfully anxious to get. We can’t thank you 
enough.” 

“ I should say not,” supplemented Rodney. 
“ We’re delirious with delight. We hope that your 
friend won’t regret employing us,” he added more 
soberly. “ We’ll do the very best we can.” 

“ I’m sure of that,” said Mr. Houston. “ Did 
you know,” he went on, “ that the two young ladies 
here ” — he waved his hand toward Isabel and Meta 
— “ were going West for the summer, too? ” 

“No!” The young engineers gazed incredu- 
lously at the girls. “ Of course we knew that Meta 
might — ” 

“ Isabel’s going, too.” Mr. Houston’s eyes were 
twinkling with the satisfaction of the fairy god- 
father. He was very happy himself, and he wanted 
every one else to be happy. 


296 Isabel Carletoris Friends 

“Oh, say! that’s splendid!” cried George. He 
was looking at Meta. Rodney was looking at Isa- 
bel, and not saying anything. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if some sort of juggling 
would arrange things so that we could all be together 
in the mountains for a while,” said Mrs. Houston. 

“ All we’d have to do would be to rub the lamp 
or call up the traveling carpet,” laughed Isabel, her 
cheeks very red. 

“ Maybe we couldn’t have a good time among 
ourselves — eh, boys and girls?” queried Mr. 
Houston. 

“ Oh, maybe not! ” the young people chorused. 

They were all on their feet now, and the Carletons 
had joined them. There was a babel of exclama- 
tions, congratulations, suggestions, plans, and antici- 
pations. 

“ Is it all right, Mumsey? ” whispered Isabel to 
her mother, under cover of the confusion. 

“ Perfectly,” answered Mrs. Carleton. “ You 
will be in the best of hands, and the experience will 
do you good. The life we lead here gets too 
strained and sophisticated at times.” 

“ Too much so for the harmony of the family,” 
Isabel replied with a guilty look. “ Well, console 
yourself. When I come back, I’ll probably be so 
simplified that I’ll want to live on smoked fish and 
wear a blanket, with my hair down my back.” 

“ I’m not looking for quite that transformation,” 
sighed Mrs. Carleton. Isabel slipped her arm 
around her mother’s waist. 

Mr. and Mrs. Houston were going away the next 


A Wand of Kindness 


297 


day, so that there was a great deal of talking to do. 
Celia fell asleep in an arm-chair, and Fanny dragged 
her, drunk with drowsiness, to the upper regions. 
It was a late hour when the party broke up, with 
plans for meeting at the station the next day, when 
the Houstons were starting for Chicago, thence to 
go back to the West. 

The Houstons had departed; and Rodney and 
Isabel were sitting in the arbor in the back yard, 
after coming home from the station. Meta had 
gone for a canoe ride with George Burnham, — it 
was Saturday, and George was free in the afternoon. 
The Carletons had scattered to their individual oc- 
cupations. 

Isabel was holding her green silk hand-bag against 
her white skirt, as if the gay little “ reticule ” held 
something very precious. “ Wasn’t it too lovely of 
Mrs. Houston to give me this for the Fund? ” she 
said joyously. She took out of her hand-bag a slip 
of blue paper. “Fifty whole dollars! Miss 
X. Y. Z.” (she had not thought it right to reveal 
Sylvia Calderwood’s name) “ will be unspeakably 
relieved to see that she really has enough to get 
through the summer session with.” Isabel gazed at 
the check as if it were some masterpiece of art. “ It 
just puts the button on the cap of the climax to have 
this worked out so beautifully.” 

“ Mrs. Houston seems to have a way of working 
things out,” answered Rodney. “ She’s so quiet 
about it, you don’t know anything is going on; and 
then all at once, it comes to light, complete.” 


298 Isabel Carletons Friends 

“Yes,” Isabel responded. “How I shall enjoy 
being with her. And what a magnificent summer 
we’re all going to have! ” 

“ My head is still going round,” said Rodney. 
“ I can hardly believe that the matter is settled, but 
it is. Don’t you feel sorry about leaving your gar- 
den? ” He glanced out at the fair clean rows and 
clumps of plants, some budded, and some in bloom. 

“ I do, dreadfully,” said Isabel. “ But Fanny 
says she will look after it. And Melissy will never 
let a weed show its head, — she’s that savage kind 
with weeds — figurative and literal.” She laughed 
affectionately at the thought of Melissy’s thorough- 
ness. “ The garden would have to come out all 
right, anyway, when so many other things have been 
perfectly adjusted.” 

“ It almost seems like a fairy god-mother’s work, 
doesn’t it? ” Rodney was watching a blue butterfly 
floating at the door of the arbor. “ It has all come 
about with the touch of a wand.” 

“ That wand is kindness, I think,” said Isabel 
earnestly. “ The Houstons might have come and 
gone without having a bit of influence on any of us, 
if they hadn’t been so kind at heart.” 

“ That’s so,” Rodney replied. “ It counts for a 
lot, doesn’t it? ” 

“ Life appears to be, as I’ve said before,” rumi- 
nated Isabel, “ chiefly muddle within muddle.” 

“ It looks like it.” Rodney’s brown eyes were 
smiling whimsically. “ But after all, that’s what 
makes life interesting.” 

They were silent for a few moments. The sound 
of Fanny’s violin came to them from the house. 


A Wand of Kindness 299 

Fanny was playing the Bohemian folk-song which 
had been the cause of a discouraging complication. 

“ Thank heaven, the muddles get straightened out 
after a while,” said Isabel with a sigh. 

“ They always will,” said Rodney. 


THE END 


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BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

Isabel Carleton’s Year 

By MARGARET ASHMUN 

Decorated cloth , $1.25 

The theme of this story is the school and home life 
of a charming, bright, and very human girl : her ambitions, 
her occupations, her amusements, her sacrifices, and her 
triumphs. The scene is laid in Jefferson, a college town 
in the Middle West. Isabel is finishing her senior year 
in the high school, and looking forward to entering the 
co-educational University in which her father is a Pro- 
fessor. In addition to the Carleton family — Isabel, her 
father and mother, and two sisters — there are introduced 
a number of happy young people whom Miss Ashmun 
characterizes with real insight into boy and girl nature. 
Among this group is Rodney Fox, and while the story 
closes with Isabel's preparation for a trip abroad, there 
is the suggestion that in time the friendship of Isabel and 
Rodney will develop into something richer and deeper. 
Miss Ashmun has well succeeded in her purpose, which 
was to write a wholesome story that would appeal to a 
girl in her teens. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-G6 Fifth Avenue Hew York 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

The Heart of Isabel Carleton 

By MARGARET ASHMUN 


U.2$ 

“Girl readers who already know Isabel Carleton will enjoy a 
new book about her. In the recently published Heart of Isabel 
Carleton her creator, Margaret Ashmun, carries Isabel and her 
cousin, Eunice Everard, through vivid and realistic experiences 
in England at the outbreak of the war. In the latter part of the 
book Isabel returns to Jefferson, where she and the reader pick 
up old acquaintances like Rodney Fox. If there are young girls 
anywhere who have never met Isabel and her circle, they will be 
glad to be introduced. This story, like the others of the cycle, 
is sweet and wholesome, and will appeal to normal, eager girls 
everywhere.” — The Christian Advocate. 

“A realistic transcript of youthful life.” — Christian Register. 

“The whole book is considerably out of the rut of young-life 
fiction.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

“Publisher, author, and artist are to be congratulated on the 
beautiful appearance of The Heart of Isabel Carleton.” — Young 
People’s Weekly. 

“Fathers and mothers cannot give to maturing sons and daugh- 
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Shorthand Writer. 

“The events of this story are of the simplest, but there is liter- 
ary skill of no mean order. It is decidedly worth more than 
casual reading and it leaves one hoping for another chapter in 
the history of Isabel Carleton.” — Literary Critic. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 


Modern Short-Stories 

EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND WITH 
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By MARGARET ASHMUN, M.A. 

Formerly Instructor in English in the University of Wisconsin 
Cloth , i2mo, XXX 437 pp. y $140 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Introduction 

I. The short-story as a subject of study. 

II. The technique of the short-story. 

III. The short-story in Europe and America. 

The Cask of Amontillado Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Return of a Private By Hamlin Garland. 

Mateo Falcone By Prosper Merimee. 

The Hiding of Black Bill By O. Henry (William Sidney 

Porter). 

The Substitute By Francois Coppee. 

Rip Van Winkle By Washington Irving. 

The Thief By Feodor Dostoievski. 

The King of Boyville By William Allen White. 

The Father By Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 

What Was It? A Mystery. ..By Fitz-James O’Brien. 

The Real Thing By Henry James. 

Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment. . .By Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

A Rose of the Ghetto By Israel Zangwill. 

Two Friends By Guy de Maupassant. 

Aged Folk By Alphonse Daudet. 

To Build a Fire By Jack London. 

Rhymer the Second By Arthur Morrison. 

A Living Relic By Ivan Turgenev. 

The Monkey’s Paw By William Wymark Jacobs. 

A Christmas Guest By Selma Lagerlof. 

The Long Exile By Leo Tolstoi. 

Appendix: A List of Reference Books and Short-Stories. 

,u An admirable collection, supplying material for academic study 
of the short story, now so popular as a form of literature. The 
stories are interesting to the general reader and excellent for the 
literary worker.” — Education. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


Stephen’s Last Chance 

Here’s a little boy, alone and friendless, in Last Chance 
Gulch. His aunt, who was his only relative, has just 
died. The future looks pretty dark to him — and that is 
where the story begins. 

What happens to Stephen after Emery and Sara Clark 
take him back to their ranch out in the wildest part of 
Montana, how he rides the bucking “ Scratch Gravel,” 
helps to capture the bank robbers, and how he saves 
Emery Clark’s life by doing a very brave (and hard) 
thing, and, best of all, how he takes his “ last chance ” is 
told in the most interesting and exciting way. 

Boys will like this book immensely because it is full of 
adventure and something happens on every page. What 
happens? Well — that’s telling! 

“ A capital boy’s story. . . . There is fun in the telling. Every 
boy will like it — and others than boys also.” — Outlook. 

“ The scenes of Far Western Life are drawn with fidelity and 
with a certain vivacity, and the book may be read with interest 
by both young and mature.” — N. Y. Tribune. 

“This delightful story of how a little boy made good, with 
all the odds against him is told with such simplicity and dignity 
that its every event has a sort of significance and meaning. It 
is as unaffected and unpretentious as life itself. It is a picture 
of one little boy’s chance in life that stands out as a fine, brave 
thing .” — Chicago Evening Post. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 


NEW BOOKS FOR BOYS 

The Boy’s Own Book of Great 
Inventions 

By F. L. DARROW 

With many illustrations. 

Every boy — and many a girl, too — likes to make things, and 
it is out of this certain interest which youth has in invention 
that this book has grown. Its appeal is primarily to the in- 
ventive faculty latent in every youngster. Not only does Mr. 
Darrow describe the great inventions of man, but he applies the 
principles underlying them to simple apparatus which the boy 
can construct for himself. The aeroplane, the balloon, the vari- 
ous kinds of engines, the telephone, the telegraph, the submarine, 
the telescope — all these and many more come in for considera- 
tion, followed in each case with simple experiments which the 
reader can make for himself, and in many cases with explicit 
directions for the construction of an adaptation of the machine 
or instrument. 


A NEW boy’s STORY BY ADAIR ALDON 

The Pirate of Jasper Peak 

By ADAIR ALDON 
Author of “The Island of Appledore” 

Illustrated. 

This is the story of a boy, Hugh Arnold, who, in the first 
autumn of the present war, finds himself cast upon his own re- 
sources in one of the small settlements of the Northwest, his 
only two friends having gone on a hunting trip into the forest 
and failed to return. He is given to understand that the only 
hope of finding them lies in him. So he sets himself to the task 
in spite of many obstacles — the greatest of them being the open 
enmity of the much-feared pirate of Jasper Peak. This man is 
a half-breed Indian, who is trying by squatters’ right and force 
of arm to hold for his own a large unpeopled district, which 
Hugh’s Swedish friend, Oscar Danski, is attempting to open up 
for settlement and to make available for wheat growing. Hugh 
and the dog Nicholas manage to find the two lost brothers, and 
with the help of the Indian woman, Laughing Mary, he succeeds 
in accomplishing his ends and breaking the power of the pirate. 

The book is one which any boy will thoroughly enjoy. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 


NEW BOOKS FOR BOYS 


Under Orders: The Story of Tim 
and “The Club.” 

By HAROLD S. LATHAM 
Illustrated by E. C Caswell 

This is a book that belongs decidedly to the American boy of 
the present day. It is the story of Tim Scarsboro, a happy-go- 
lucky, lovable lad who finds an outlet for his boundless energy 
in the Pettibone Boys’ Club. 

How Tim and the other boys of this club go camping, get up 
a minstrel, sell Thrift Stamps and do other patriotic work, as 
well as have a “ grand, glorious time ” on numerous occasions 
is described in a series of interesting chapters, culminating in a 
scene of such life and spirit as will appeal to any American 
lad. 

Incidentally, in “ Under Orders,” the boys’ club movement gets 
some of the credit that is due it for the good that it is doing in 
building up the ideals of American youth. 

That Year at Lincoln High 

By JOSEPH GOLLOMB 
With illustrations by E. C. Caswell 

This is a rousing story of public school life in a big city, a 
story full of incidents ranging from hotly contested athletic 
meets — baseball and basketball games — to mysterious secret so- 
ciety initiations. 

The principal character is, perhaps, one J. Henley Smolett, 
whose well-to-do father decrees that he shall go to the nearby 
public school instead of to the aristocratic private institution on 
which the boy’s heart had been set. There is a good reason for 
the senior Smolett’s action, as the story shows. Hardly less 
appealing as a character is Isadore Smolensky, of the East Side, 
whose first encounter with J. Henley is of a pugilistic nature, 
but who ultimately becomes his warm friend. 

Not only is the story vivid and exciting, but it gives, as well, 
a mighty good idea of the democratizing process going on in 
our public schools of today. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 













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